HUNTER  P.  LOVELACE 


Exclusive  Coast  Representative 

7100  SUNSET  BLVD. 
HEmp.t..d  8033        Hollywood.  Calif. 


AT  THE   CROSSROADS 


BOOKS   BY 
HARRIET  T.  COMSTOCK 

A  LITTLE  DUSKY  HERO 

A  SON  OF  THE  HILLS 

AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

CAMP  BRAVE  PINE 

JANET  OF  THE  DUNES 

JOYCE  OF  THE  NORTH  WOODS 

MAM'SELLE  Jo 

PRINCESS  RAGS  AND  TATTERS 

THE  MAN  THOU  GAYEST 

THE  PLACE  BEYOND  THE  WINDS 

THE  SHIELD  OF  SILENCE 

THE  VINDICATION 

UNBROKEN  LINES 


"//  might  have  seemed  an  empty  house  but  for  the  appearance 
of  care  and  a  curl  of  smoke  from  the  chimney" 


At  the  Crossroads 

BY 
HARRIET  T.  COMSTOCK 


FRONTISPIECE 

BY 
WALTER    DE    MARIS 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1922 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,   BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED,    INCLUDING    THAT    OF    TRANSLATION 
INTO   FOREIGN    LANGUAGES,    INCLUDING   THE   SCANDINAVIAN 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 
THE  COUNTKY  LIFE  PKEtt,  CAKDIN  CITY,  N.  T. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS 


2134758 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS 


THE  great  turning  points  of  life  are  often  rounded  un- 
consciously. Invisible  tides  hurry  us  on  and  only 
when  we  are  well  past  the  curve  do  we  realize  what  has 
happened  to  us. 

Brace  Northrup,  sitting  in  Doctor  Manly's  office,  smoking 
and  ruminating,  was  not  conscious  of  turning  points  or  tides; 
he  was  sluggish  and  depressed;  wallowing  in  the  after-effects 
of  a  serious  illness. 

Manly,  sitting  across  the  hearth  from  his  late  patient — 
he  had  shoved  him  out  of  that  category — regarded  him  from 
the  viewpoint  of  a  friend. 

Manly  was  impressionistic  in  his  methods  of  thought  and 
expression.  Every  stroke  told. 

The  telephone  had  not  rung  for  fifteen  minutes  but  both 
men  knew  its  potentialities  and  wanted  to  make  the  most  of 
the  silence. 

"Oh!  I  confess,"  Northrup  admitted,  "that  my  state  of 
gloom  is  due  more  to  the  fact  that  I  cannot  write  than  to  my 
sickness.  I'm  done  for!" 

Manly  looked  at  his  friend  and  scowled. 

"Rot!"  he  ejaculated.  Then  added:  "The  world  would 
not  perish  if  you  didn't  write  again." 

"I'm  not  thinking  about  the  world,"  Northrup  was  intent 
upon  the  fire,  "it's  how  the  fact  is  affecting  me.  The  world 
can  accept  or  decline,  but  I  am  made  helpless.  You  see  my 
work  is  the  only  real,  vital  thing  I  have  clawed  out  of  life, 
by  my  own  efforts,  Manly;  that  means  a  lot  to  a  fellow." 

Manly  continued  to  scowl.  Had  Northrup  been  watching 
him  he  might  have  gained  encouragement,  for  Manly's  scowls 
were  proof  of  his  deeply  moved  sympathies. 


2  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"The  trouble  with  you,  old  man,"  he  presently  said,  "is 
this:  You've  been  dangerously  ill;  you  thought  you  were 
going  to  slip  out,  and  so  did  I,  and  all  the  others.  You're  like 
the  man  who  fell  on  the  battlefield  and  thought  his  legs  were 
shot  off.  You've  got  to  get  up  and  learn  to  walk  again. 
We're  all  suggesting  the  wrong  thing  to  you.  Go  where 
people  don't  know,  don't  care  a  damn  for  you.  Take  to  the 
road.  That  ink-slinging  self  that  you  are  hankering  after  is 
just  ahead.  You'll  overtake  it,  but  it  will  never  turn  back 
for  you — the  self  that  you  are  now." 

Manly  fidgeted.  He  hated  to  talk.  Then  Northrup  said 
something  that  brought  Manly  to  his  feet — and  to  several 
minutes  of  restless  striding  about  the  room. 

"Manly,  while  I  was  at  my  worst  I  couldn't  tell  whether  it 
was  delirium  or  sanity,  I  saw  that  Thing  across  the 
water,  the  Thing  that  for  lack  of  a  better  name  we  call  war,  in 
quite  a  new  light.  It's  what  has  got  us  all  and  is  shaking 
us  into  consciousness.  We're  going  to  know  the  true  from 
the  false  when  this  passes.  My  God!  Manly,  I  wonder  if 
any  of  us  know  what  is  true  and  what  isn't  ?  Ideals,  nations, 
folks!" 

Northrup's  face  flushed. 

"See  here,  old  man,"  Manly  paused,  set  his  legs  wide  apart 
as  if  to  balance  himself  and  pointed  a  finger  at  Northrup, 
"You've  got  to  cut  all  this  out  and — beat  it!  Whatever  that 
damned  thing  is  over  there,  it  isn't  our  mess.  It's  the  erup- 
tion of  a  volcano  that's  been  bubbling  and  sizzling  for  years. 
The  lava's  flowing  now,  a  hot  black  filth,  but  it's  going  to  stop 
before  it  reaches  us/' 

"I  wonder,  Manly,  I  wonder.  It's  more  like  a  divining 
rod  to  me,  finding  souls." 

"Very  well.  Now  I'm  going  to  put  an  ugly  fact  up  to  you, 
Northrup.  Your  body  is  all  right,  but  your  nerves  are 
frayed  and  unless  you  mind  your  step  you're  going  to  go 
dippy.  Catch  on?  There  are  places  where  nothing  hap- 
pens. Nothing  ever  has  happened.  Go  and  find  such  a  hole 
and  stay  in  it  a  month,  six  weeks — longer,  if  you  can.  Be  a 
part  of  the  nothingness  and  save  your  life.  Break  all  the 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  3 

commandments,  if  there  are  any,  but  don't  look  back!  I've 
seen  big  cures  come  from  letting  go!  I'll  look  after  your 
mother  and  Kathryn." 

The  telephone  here  interrupted. 

"All  right!  all  right!"  snapped  Manly  into  the  receiver, 
"set  the  operation  for  ten  to-morrow  and  have  the  hair 
shaved  from  the  side  of  her  head." 

Then  he  turned  back  to  Northrup  as  if  disfiguring  a  woman 
were  a  matter  of  no  importance. 

"The  fact  is,  Northrup,  most  of  us  get  glued  to  our  own 
narrow  slits  in  the  wall,  most  of  us  are  chained  to  them  by  our 
jobs  and  we  get  to  squinting,  if  we  don't  get  blinded.  I'm 
not  saying  that  we  don't  each  have  a  slit  and  should  know  it; 
but  your  job  requires  moving  about  and  peering  through 
other  fellows'  slits,  and  lately,  ever  since  that  last  book 
of  yours,  you've  kept  to  your  hole;  the  fever  caught  you 
at  the  wrong  time  and  this  mess  across  seas  has  got  mixed 
up  with  it  all  until  you're  no  use  to  yourself  or  any  one  else. 
Beat  it!" 

Something  like  a  wave  of  fresh  air  seemed  to  have  entered 
the  quiet,  warm  room.  Northrup  raised  his  head.  Manly 
took  heed  and  rambled  on;  he  saw  that  he  was  making  an  im- 
pression at  last. 

"Queer  things  jog  you  into  consciousness  when  you  detach 
yourself  from  your  moorings.  A  mountain-top,  a  baby's  hold 
on  your  finger,  when  you're  about  to  hurt  it.  A  sunset,  a 
woman's  face;  a  moment  when  you  realize  your  soul!  You're 
never  the  same  after,  Northrup,  but  you  do  your  job  better 
and  your  slit  in  the  wall  is  wider.  Man,  you  need  a  jog." 

"What  jogged  you,  Manly?" 

This  was  daring.     People  rarely  questioned  Manly. 

"It  was  seeing  my  soul!"    Quite  simply  the  answer  came. 

There  was  a  long,  significant  silence.  Both  men  had  to 
travel  back  to  the  commonplace  and  they  felt  their  way 
gingerly. 

"Northrup,  drop  things.  It  is  your  friend  speaking  now. 
Go  where  the  roar  and  rumble  of  what  doesn't  concern  you 
haven't  reached.  Good-night," 


4  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Northrup  got  up  slowly. 

"I  wonder  if  there  is  such  a  place?"  he  muttered. 

"Sure,  old  man.  Outside  of  this  old  sounding-board  of 
New  York,  there  are  nooks  where  nothing  even  echoes. 
Usually  you  find  good  fishing  in  them.  Come  now,  get  out!" 


CHAPTER  I 

BRACE  NORTHRUP  received  the  first  intimation  of 
his  jog  when  he  knocked  on  the  door  of  a  certain 
little  yellow  house  set  rakishly  at  the  crossroads,  a 
few  miles  from  King's  Forest. 

The  house  gave  the  impression  of  wanting  to  go  somewhere 
but  had  not  decided  upon  the  direction.  Its  many  windows 
of  shining  glass  were  like  wide-open  eyes  peering  cheerfully 
forth  on  life,  curiously  interested  and  hopeful.  The  shades, 
if  there  were  any,  were  rolled  from  sight.  It  might  have 
seemed  an  empty  house  but  for  the  appearance  of  care  and  a 
curl  of  smoke  from  the  chimney. 

Northrup  walked  across  the  bit  of  lawn  leading,  pathless, 
to  the  stone  step,  and  knocked  on  the  door.  It  was  a  very 
conservative  knock  but  instantly  the  door  swung  in — it  was 
that  kind  of  a  door,  a  welcoming  door — and  Northrup  was 
precipitated  into  a  room  which,  at  first  glance,  appeared  to 
be  full  of  sunlight,  children,  and  dogs. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  there  were  two  or  three  little  children 
and  an  older  girl  with  a  strange,  vague  face;  four  dogs  and  a 
young  person  seated  on  the  edge  of  a  table  and  engaged,  ap- 
parently, before  Northrup's  arrival,  in  telling  so  thrilling  a 
story  that  the  small,  absorbed  audience  barely  noted  his  en- 
trance. They  turned  mildly  interested  eyes  upon  him  much 
as  they  might  have  upon  an  unnecessary  illustration  adorning 
the  tale. 

The  figure  on  the  table  wore  rough  knickerbockers,  high, 
rather  muddy  boots,  a  loose  jacket,  and  a  cap  set  crookedly  on 
the  head.  When  Northrup  spoke,  the  young  person  turned 
and  he  saw  that  it  was  a  woman.  There  was  no  surprise,  at 
first,  in  the  eyes  which  met  Northrup's — the  door  of  the  little 
yellow  house  was  constantly  admitting  visitors — but  suddenly 


6  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

the  expression  changed  to  one  of  startled  wonder.  It  was 
the  expression  of  one  who,  never  expecting  a  surprise,  sud' 
denly  is  taken  unawares. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  stammered  Northrup.  "I  assure 
you  I  did  knock.  I  merely  want  to  ask  the  direction  and 
distance  of  Heathcote  Inn.  Crossroads  are  so  confusing 
when  one  is  tired  and  hungry  and " 

Once  having  begun  to  speak,  Northrup  was  too  embar- 
rassed to  stop.  The  eyes  confronting  him  were  most  dis- 
concerting. They  smiled;  they  seemed  to  be  glad  he  was 
there;  the  girl  apparently  was  enjoying  the  situation. 

"The  inn  is  three  miles  down  the  south  road;  the  lake  is 
just  beyond.  Follow  that.  They  serve  dinner  at  the  inn 
at  one." 

The  voice  was  like  the  eyes,  friendly,  vital,  and  lovely. 

Then,  as  if  staged,  a  clock  set  on  a  high  shelf  announced 
in  crisp,  terse  tones  the  hour  of  twelve. 

"Thank  you." 

That  was  all.  The  incident  was  closed  and  Northrup 
backed  out,  drawing  the  humorous  door  after  him.  As  the 
latch  caught  he  heard  a  thin,  reedy  voice,  probably  belonging 
to  the  vague  girl,  say: 

"Now  that  he's  gone,  please  go  on.     You  got  to  where ' 

Northrup  found  himself  at  the  crossroads  where,  five  min- 
utes before,  he  had  stood,  and  there,  in  plain  sight  of  any  one 
not  marked  by  Fate  for  a  turning-point,  was  a  sign-board  in 
perfectly  good  condition,  stating  the  fact  that  if  one  followed 
the  direction,  indicated  by  a  long,  tapering  finger,  for  three 
miles,  he  would  come  to  Heathcote  Inn,  "Open  All  the  Year") 

"The  girl  must  take  me  for  a  fool,  or  worse!"  thought 
Northrup.  Then  he  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  that  he  had 
left  something  behind  him  in  that  room  he  had  just  invaded. 
But  no!  His  gripsack  was  securely  fastened  on  his  back,  his 
walking  stick  was  in  his  hand,  his  hat  upon  his  head.  Still  he 
felt  that  lack  of  something. 

"It's  the  air!"  Northrup  sniffed  it.  "I'm  as  hungry  as  a 
wolf,  too.  Hungry  as  I  used  to  be  twenty  years  ago." 
Northrup  was  twenty-seven.  "Lord!  what  a  day." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  7 

It  was  a  day  with  which  to  reckon,  there  was  no  doubt 
about  that.  An  autumn  day  of  silence,  crispness,  and  colour. 
Suddenly,  something  Manly  had  said  came  hurtingly  into 
Northrup's  consciousness:  ".  .  .  or  a  woman's  face  !" 

Then,  because  of  the  day  and  a  certain  regained  strength, 
Northrup  laughed  and  shook  off  that  impression  of  having 
left  something  behind  him  and  set  off  at  a  brisk  rate  on  the 
road  to  the  inn.  He  soon  came  to  the  lake.  It  lay  to  the 
right  of  the  road.  The  many-coloured  hills  rose  protectingly 
on  the  left.  All  along  the  edge  of  the  water  a  flaming  trail 
of  sumach  marked  the  curves  where  the  obliging  land  with- 
drew as  the  lake  intruded. 

"I  might  be  a  thousand  miles  from  home,"  Northrup 
thought  as  he  swung  along. 

In  reality,  he  had  been  only  a  week  on  his  way  and  had 
taken  it  easy.  He  had  made  no  plans;  had  walked  until  he 
was  weary,  had  slept  where  he  could  find  quarters,  and  was 
doing  what  he  had  all  his  life  wanted  to  do,  and  which  at 
last  Manly  had  given  him  courage  to  do:  leave  the  self  that 
circumstances  had  evolved  and  take  to  the  open  trail,  seeking, 
as  Manly  had  figuratively  put  it,  his  real  self. 

During  his  long  illness  reality  seemed  to  have  fallen  from 
his  perceptions — or  was  it  unreality?  He  knew  that  he  must 
find  out  or  he  could  never  again  hope  to  take  his  place  among 
men  with  any  assurance.  As  far  as  he  could  he  must  cut  him- 
self off  from  the  past,  blot  out  the  time-honoured  prejudices 
that  might  or  might  not  be  legitimate.  He  must  settle  that 
score ! 

Northrup  was  a  tall,  lean  man  with  a  slant  of  the  body  that 
suggested  resistance.  His  face,  too,  carried  out  the  impres- 
sion. The  eyes,  deep  set  and  keenly  gray,  brooded  question- 
ingly  when  the  humour  of  a  situation  did  not  control  them. 
The  mouth  was  not  an  architectural  mouth;  the  lines  had 
been  evolved;  the  mouth  was  still  in  the  making.  It  might 
become  hard  or  bitter:  it  could  never  become  cruel.  There 
was  hope  in  the  firm  jaw,  and  the  week  of  outdoor  air  and 
sun  had  done  much  to  remove  the  pallor  of  sickness  and 
harden  the  muscles. 


8  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

With  every  mile  that  set  him  apart  from  his  old  environ- 
ment the  eyes  grew  less  gloomy;  the  lines  of  the  mouth  more 
relaxed:  in  fact,  Northrup's  appearance  at  that  moment  might 
have  made  Manly  sympathize  with  the  creator  of  Franken- 
stein. The  released  Northrup  held  startling  possibilities. 

Striding  ahead,  whistling,  swinging  his  stick,  he  permitted 
himself  to  recall  the  face  of  the  woman  in  the  yellow  house. 
He  had  taken  the  faces  of  women  in  the  past  largely  for 
granted.  They  represented  types,  ages,  periods.  Only  once 
before  had  he  become  aware  of  what  Life,  as  he  had  not 
known  it,  could  do  to  women's  faces:  While  he  was  writing 
his  last  book — the  one  that  had  lifted  him  from  a  low  literary 
level  and  set  him  hopefully  upon  a  higher — he  had  lived,  for  a 
time,  on  the  lower  East  Side  of  New  York;  had  confronted 
the  ugly  results  of  an  existence  evolved  from  chance,  not  de- 
sign. 

But  this  last  face — Life  had  done  something  to  it  that  he 
could  not  comprehend.  What  was  it?  Then  Northrup 
suddenly  concluded  that  Life  had  done  nothing  to  it — had,  in 
fact,  left  it  alone.  At  this  point,  Northrup  resorted  to  detail. 
Her  eyes  were  almost  golden:  the  lashes  made  them  seem 
darker.  The  face  was  young  and  yet  it  held  that  expression 
of  age  that  often  marks  the  faces  of  children:  a  wondering 
look,  yet  sweetly  contemptuous:  not  quite  confident,  but 
amused. 

Now  he  had  it!  The  face  was  like  a  mirror;  it  reflected 
thought  and  impression.  Life  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
Very  good,  so  far. 

"And  her  voice!  Queer  voice  to  be  found  here" — North- 
rup was  keen  about  voices;  they  instantly  affected  him. 
"Her  voice  had  tones  in  it  that  vibrated.  It  might  be  the 
product  of — well,  everything  which  it  probably  wasn't." 

This  was  laughable. 

Northrup  would  not  have  been  surprised  at  that  moment 
to  have  seen  The  Face  in  the  flaming  bushes  by  the  roadside. 

"I  wonder  if  there  is  any  habitation  between  that  yellow 
house  and  the  inn?"  He  pulled  himself  together  and  strode 
on.  Hunger  and  weariness  were  overcoming  moods  and 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  9 

fancies.  There  was  not.  The  gold  and  scarlet  hills  rose  un- 
broken to  the  left  and  the  road  wound  divertingly  by  the 
lake. 

There  was  no  wind;  scarcely  a  stirring  of  the  leaves,  but 
birds  sang  and  fish  darted  in  the  clear  water  that  reflected  the 
colour  and  form  of  every  branch  and  twig. 

In  another  half  hour  Northrup  saw  the  inn  on  ahead.  He 
knew  it  at  once  from  a  picture-card  he  had  bought  earlier  in 
the  day.  It  set  so  close  to  the  lake  as  to  give  the  impression 
of  getting  its  feet  wet.  It  was  a  long,  low  white  building  with 
more  windows,  doors,  and  chimneys  than  seemed  necessary. 
Everything  looked  trim  and  neat  and  smoke  curled  briskly 
above  the  hospitable  house.  There  were,  apparently,  many 
fires  in  action,  and  they  bespoke  comfort  and  food. 

Northrup,  upon  reaching  the  inn,  saw  that  a  mere  strip  of 
lawn  separated  it  from  the  road  and  lake,  the  piazza,  was  on 
a  level  with  the  ground  and  three  doors  gave  choice  of  en- 
trance to  the  wayfarer.  Northrup  chose  the  one  near  the 
middle  and  respectfully  tapped  on  it,  drawing  back  in- 
stantly. He  did  not  mean  to  have  a  second  joke  played  upon 
him  by  doors. 

There  was  a  stirring  inside,  a  dog  gave  a  sleepy  grunt,  and 
a  man's  voice  called  out: 

"The  bolt's  off." 

It  would  seem  that  doors  were  incidental  barriers  in  King's 
Forest.  No  one  was  expected  to  regard  them  seriously. 

Northrup  entered  and  then  stood  still. 

He  was  alive  to  impressions,  and  this  second  room,  within 
a  short  space  of  time,  had  power,  also,  to  arouse  surprise. 
There  was  no  sunlight  here — the  overshadowing  piazza  pre^ 
vented  that — but  there  were  two  enormous  fireplaces,  one  at 
either  end  of  the  large  room,  and  upon  the  hearths  of  both 
generous  fires  were  burning  ruddily. 

By  the  one  nearer  to  Northrup  sat  a  man  with  a  bandaged 
leg  stretched  out  before  him  on  a  stool,  and  a  gold-and-white 
collie  at  his  side.  The  man  was  elderly,  stout,  and  imposing. 
His  curly  gray  hair  sprang — no  other  word  conveyed  the  im- 
pression of  the  vitality  and  alertness  of  the  hair — above  a 


io  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

rosy,  genial  face;  the  eyes  were  small,  keen,  and  full  of  humour, 
the  voice  had  already  given  a  suggestion  of  welcome. 

"You  are  Mr.  Heathcote,  I  suppose?" 

Northrup  was  subconsciously  aware  of  the  good  old  ma- 
hogany furniture;  the  well-kept  appearance  of  everything. 

"You've  struck  it  right.     Will  you  set?" 

"Thanks." 

Northrup  took  the  chair  opposite  the  master  of  the  inn. 

"My  name  is  Northrup,  Brace  Northrup  from  New  York." 

"Footing  it?"  Heathcote  was  rapidly  making  one  of  his 
sudden  estimates;  generally  he  did  not  take  the  trouble  to 
do  this,  but  some  people  called  forth  his  approval  or  dis- 
approval at  once. 

"Yes.  I've  taken  my  time,  been  a  week  on  the  way  and, 
incidentally,  recovering  from  an  illness." 

"Pausing  or  staying  on?" 

Northrup  meant  to  say  "pausing";  instead  he  found  him- 
self stating  that  he'd  like  to  stay  on  if  he  could  be  accommo- 
dated. 

"We'll  have  to  consult  Aunt  Polly  as  to  that,"  said  Heath- 
cote. "You  see  I'm  rather  off  my  legs  just  now.  Gander! 
Great  bird,  that  gander.  He  lit  out  two  weeks  ago  and  cut 
me  to  the  bone  with  his  wing.  He's  got  a  wing  like  a  hatchet. 
I'll  be  about  in  a  day  or  two  and  taking  command,  but  until 
then  I  have  to  let  my  sister  have  her  say  as  to  what  burdens 
she  feels  she  can  carry." 

For  a  moment  Northrup  regarded  himself,  mentally,  as  a 
burden.  It  was  a  new  sensation  and  he  felt  like  putting  up  a 
plea;  but  before  he  could  frame  one  Heathcote  gave  a  low 
whistle  and  almost  at  once  a  door  at  the  rear  opened,  admit- 
ting a  fragrance  of  delectable  food  and  the  smallest  woman 
Northrup  had  ever  seen.  That  so  fragile  a  creature  could 
bear  any  responsibility  outside  that  due  herself,  was  difficult 
to  comprehend  until  one  looked  into  the  strange,  clear  eyes 
peering  through  glasses,  set  awry.  Unquenchable  youth  and 
power  lay  deep  in  those  piercing  eyes;  there  was  force  that 
could  command  the  slight  body  to  do  its  bidding. 

"Polly,  this  is  Mr.  Northrup,  from  New  York" — was  there 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  n 

lurking  amusement  in  the  tone? — "He  wants  to  stop  on; 
what  do  you  say?  It's  up  to  you  and  don't  hesitate  to  speak 
your  mind." 

The  woman  regarded  the  candidate  for  her  favour  much  as 
she  might  have  a  letter  of  introduction;  quite  impersonally 
but  decidedly  judicially. 

"If  Mr.  Northrup  will  take  pot  luck  and  as  is,  I  think  he 
can  stay,  brother." 

Northrup  had  an  unreasoning  sense  of  relief.  All  his  life 
his  pulses  quickened  when  what  he  desired  seemed  about  to 
elude  him.  He  smiled,  now,  like  a  boy. 

"Thank  you,"  he  ventured,  "you'll  find  me  most  grateful 
and  adaptable." 

"Well,  since  that's  settled,"  Aunt  Polly  seemed  to  pigeon- 
hole her  guest  and  label  him  as  an  individual,  "I'll  run  out  and 
lay  another  plate.  You  just  go  along  upstairs  and  pick  out 
your  room.  They  are  all  ready.  The  front  ones  open  to  the 
lake  and  the  west;  the  back  ones  are  east  and  woodsy;  outside 
of  that  there  isn't  much  choice.  It's  one  o'  clock  now,  but  I 
can  put  things  back  a  spell  and  give  you  a  chance  to  wash 
before  dinner." 

Northrup  picked  up  his  bag  and  hat  and  started  for  the 
stairs  at  the  far  end  of  the  room.  The  sense  of  unreality  was 
still  upon  him.  He  felt  like  breathing  low  and  stepping  light. 
The  sensation  smacked  of  magic.  So  long  as  one  could  be- 
lieve it,  it  would  hold,  but  once  you  doubted,  the  old,  grim 
existence  would  snatch  you! 

Upstairs  the  hall  ran  from  north  to  south  of  the  rambling 
house,  on  either  side  the  doors  opened,  leading  to  small, 
orderly  rooms,  apparently  alike  except  in  detail  of  colour  and 
placing  of  furniture.  There  was  a  hearth  in  every  room,  upon 
which  lay  wood  ready  to  light  and  beside  which  stood  huge 
baskets  of  logs  giving  promise  of  unlimited  comfort.  Fresh 
towels  and  water  were  on  stands,  and  the  beds  fairly  reached 
out  to  tired  bodies  with  assurances  of  rest  and  sleep.  North- 
rup went,  still  treading  light  and  believing,  from  door  to  door, 
and  then  he  chose  a  west  room  because  the  lapping  of  the  lake 
sounded  like  a  lullaby. 


12  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

It  was  the  work  of  a  few  moments  to  drop  dust-stained  gar- 
ments and  plunge  one's  head  into  the  icy  water;  a  few  mo- 
ments more  and  a  refreshed  man  emerged  from  a  vigorous 
rubbing  and  gave  a  laugh  of  sheer  delight. 

"I'm  in  for  it!"  he  muttered,  still  clinging  to  the  mood  of 
unreality.  "I  bet  my  last  nickel  that  something's  going  to 
happen  and  by  the  lord  Harry!  I'm  going  to  see  it  through. 
This  is  one  of  those  holes  Manly  prophesied  about.  Looks 
as  if  it  had  been  waiting  for  me  to  come." 

He  was  downstairs  in  time  to  help  his  host  to  the  head  of 
his  table,  in  the  adjoining  room.  They  made  rather  an  im- 
posing procession,  Aunt  Polly  leading,  the  golden  collie  bring- 
ing up  the  rear. 

Heathcote  in  a  fat  whisper  gave  some  staccato  advice  en 
route:  "Better  call  sister  'Aunt  Polly'  at  once.  If  you  don't 
suggest  offishness,  none  will  be  suspected.  Fall  in  line,  I  say! 
Dog's  name  is  Ginger.  Animals  like  to  be  tagged,  more 
human-like.  Act  as  if  you  always  had  been,  or  had  come 
back.  If  there's  one  thing  Polly  can't  abide,  it's  hitting  a 
snag." 

Devoutly  Northrup  vowed  he'd  be  no  snag. 

He  took  his  place  on  the  east  side  of  the  table,  so  to  speak, 
and  the  lake  was  in  front  of  him.  The  lake  was  becoming  a 
vital  feature  in  the  new  environment. 

The  water  was  ruffled  now;  the  reflections  trembled  and  the 
lapping  was  more  insistent. 

The  food  was  excellent.  Aunt  Polly  had  prepared  it  and 
watched,  with  a  true  artist's  eye,  her  guest's  appreciation  of 
it. 

"Food  is  just  food  to  some  folks,"  she  confided,  casting  a 
slantwise  glance  at  her  brother,  "just  what  you  might  call 
fodder.  But  I  alias  have  held  that,  viewed  rightly,  it  feeds 
body  and  soul." 

Heathcote  chuckled. 

"And  right  you  are,  Aunt  Polly!"  Northrup  said,  watch- 
ing the  effect  of  his  familiarity.  Nothing  occurred.  He 
was  being  taken  for  granted. 

Bits  of  history  crept  into  the  easy  conversation  during  the 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  13 

meal.  Apparently  meal-time  was  a  function  at  the  inn,  not 
an  episode. 

Heathcote  and  his  sister,  it  appeared,  had  come  to  King's 
Forest  for  his  health,  fifty  years  before.  He  was  twenty 
then;  Aunt  Polly  eighteen. 

"Just  like  silly  pioneers,"  Polly  broke  in,  "but  we  found 
health  and  work  and  we  grew  to  love  the  place.  We  feel 
toward  it  as  one  does  to  an  adopted  child,  less  understanding, 
but  more  responsible.  Every  once  so  often,  when  we  got 
into  ruts,  God  Almighty  made  us  realize  that  He  was  keeping 
His  hand  on  the  reins,"  the  dear  old  soul  chuckled  happily. 
"Peter  got  himself  made  into  a  magistrate  and  that  was 
something  to  work  with.  We  made  a  home  and  friends,  but 
the  Forest  isn't  an  easy  proposition.  It  ain't  changed  much. 
It's  lazy  and  rough,  and  I  often  tell  Peter  that  the  place  is 
like  two  old  folks  over  on  the  Point,  Twombley  and  Peneluna. 
Still  and  scroogy,  but  keeping  up  a  mighty  lot  of  thinking. 
If  anything  ever  wakes  the  Forest  up  it's  going  to  show  what 
it's  been  cogitating  about." 

"Is  there  a  village?"  Northrup  asked. 

"There's  one  seven  miles  from  here,"  Heathcote  replied; 
"stores,  post  office,  a  Methodist  minister — necessary  evils, 
you  know,"  this  came  with  a  fat  chuckle,  "but  the  Forest 
ain't  anything  but  the  Forest.  Houses  sorter  dropped  down 
carelesslike  where  someone's  fancy  fixed  'em.  There  used 
to  be  a  church  and  school.  The  school  burned  down;  the 
church,  half  finished,  stands  like  a  hint  for  better  living,  on  a 
little  island  a  half  mile  down  the  line.  There's  the  Point 
where  the  folks  live  as  can't  get  a  footing  elsewhere.  There's 
always  a  Point  or  a  Hollow,  you  know.  And  there's  the 
Mines,  back  some  miles  to  the  south.  Iron  that  used  to  be 
worked.  Queer  holdings!" 

Peter  paused.  Sustained  conversation  always  made  him 
pant  and  gave  Polly  an  opportunity  to  edge  in. 

"As  I  was  saying,"  she  began  calmly,  "every  once  so 
often  God  Almighty  made  us  realize  that  He  had  His  hand 
on  the  reins.  When  me  and  Peter  got  to  acting  as  if  we 
owned  things,  someone  new  happened  along  and — stuck. 


I4  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"First  there  was  old  Doctor  Rivers.  We  never  rightly 
knew  where  he  came  from,  or  why.  By  and  by  we  got  to 
feeling  we  best  showed  our  love  and  respect  by  not  wondering 
about  him. 

"Then  after  the  doctor  did  his  stint  and  left  his  mark, 
Maclin  came.  We're  studying  over  Maclin  yet.  He  bought 
the  Mines  and  kinder  settled  down  on  us  all  like  a  heavy  air 
that  ain't  got  any  set  of  the  wind." 

Aunt  Polly  was  picturesque.  Peter  eyed  her  admiringly 
and  gave  his  comfortable  chuckle. 

"Sister  holds,"  he  explained,  "that  the  Forest  isn't  the 
God-forsaken  place  it  looks  to  be,  but  is  a  rich  possibility. 
I  differ,  and  that  is  what  queers  Maclin  with  us.  His  buying 
those  wore-out  mines  and  saying  he's  going  to  make  the 
Forest  is  damaging  evidence  against  him.  He  ain't  no  fool: 
then  what  is  he?  That's  what  we're  conjuring  with.  Mac- 
lin ain't  seeing  himself  in  partnership  with  the  Almighty, 
not  he!  One-man  firm  for  Maclin." 

"Now,  brother!"  Polly  remarked  while  Heathcote  was 
catching  his  breath,  "I  say  give  a  good  doubt  to  a  man 
till  you  have  to  give  a  bad  one.  We've  no  right  to  judge 
Maclin  yet,  he's  only  just  begun  to  have  his  say-so  out  loud, 
and  put  out  feelers." 

"And  now" — Peter  put  his  plate  down  for  the  faithful 
Ginger  to  lap  clean,  and  prepared  to  rise — "and  now,  you've 
come,  stranger.  When  you  hesitated  a  time  back  as  to 
whether  you  was  pausing  or  staying  on,  I  just  held  my  breath, 
and  when  you  slapped  out,  'staying  on,'  I  thought  to  myself, 
'Now,  which  is  he,  a  dispensation  of  Providence  or  just  a 
plain  passer-by?"1 

Northrup  smiled  grimly.  This  all  fitted  into  his  own 
vague  mood  of  unreality. 

"You  mustn't  take  me  seriously,"  he  said,  going  around 
the  table  to  help  his  host.  "I'm  as  ordinary  as  the  ma- 
jority. I  like  the  looks  of  things  here.  I  stop  and  enjoy 
mvself,  and  pass  on!  That's  the  usual  way,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes" — Polly  began  gathering  the  dishes — "it's  what  hap- 
pens while  one  stops,  that  counts.  That,  and  what  one 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  15 

leaves  behind,  when  he  passes  on.     It's  real  queer,  though, 
to  have  any  one  staying  on  this  season  of  the  year." 

During  the  afternoon  North rup  wandered  in  the  woods 
which  rose  abruptly  from  behind  the  house.  So  still  was  the 
brilliant  forest  that  a  falling  leaf  startled  him  and  a  scurrying 
creature  among  the  bushes  set  his  nerves  tingling.  Then 
it  was  that  the  haunting  face  and  voice  of  the  girl  in  the  little 
yellow  house  rose  again  with  an  insistence  that  could  not  be 
disregarded.  It  dominated  his  thought;  it  was  part  of  this 
strange  sense  of  shadowy  and  coming  events;  it  refused  to  be 
set  aside. 

It  did  not  mock  him — he  could  have  dealt  with  that  phase 
— it  pleaded.  It  seemed  to  implore  him  to  accept  it  along 
with  his  quickened  pulses;  the  colour  of  the  autumn  day;  the 
sweetness  of  the  smell  of  crushed  leaves;  the  sound  of  lapping 
water;  the  song  of  birds. 

"I  wonder  who  she  is,  and  why  she  looks  as  she  does  ?" 

Northrup  ceased  to  scoff  at  his  fancy;  he  wooed  it.  He  pic- 
tured the  girl's  hair  loose  from  the  rough  cap — curly,  rather 
wild  hair  with  an  uplift  in  every  tendril.  What  colour  was 
it?  Gold-brown  probably,  like  the  eyes.  For  five  minutes 
he  tried  to  decide  this  but  knew  that  he  would  have  to  see  it 
again  to  make  sure. 

The  face  was  a  small  face,  but  it  was  strong  and  unutter- 
ably appealing.  A  hungry  little  face;  a  face  whose  soul  was 
ill-nourished,  a  contradictory  face. 

Northrup  called  himself  to  order  just  here.  He  wasn't 
going  to  be  an  ass,  not  if  he  could  help  it! 

"Strange  voice!"  he  thought  on.  "It  had  calls  in  it. 
I  am  an  ass!"  he  admitted,  and  in  order  to  get  the  better 
of  the  situation  he  turned  sharply  and  went  back  to  the  inn. 


CHAPTER  II 

NORTHRUP  decided  to  refrain  from  asking  questions. 
Long  ago  he  discovered  that  he  could  gain  more 
from  a  receptive  state  of  mind  than  an  inquiring  one. 

He  began  to  understand  his  peculiar  mental  excitement. 
Manly  was  right.  AH  that  was  needed  to  bring  about  com- 
plete recovery  was  detachment  and  opportunity  for  his 
machinery  to  get  into  action.  He  knew  the  signs.  The 
wheels  were  beginning  to  turn! 

Now  from  Northrup's  point  of  view  this  was  all  right; 
but  his  sudden  appearance  in  a  place  where  bad  roads  and 
no  reason  for  coming  usually  kept  people  out,  caused  a 
ripple  to  reach  from  the  inn  to  the  Point  and  even  the 
Mines,  twelve  miles  away. 

The  people  took  time  before  accepting  strangers;  they  had 
not  yet  digested  Maclin,  and  in  silent  disapproval  they  re- 
garded Northrup  as  in  some  way  connected  with  Maclin. 

The  mine  owner  had  been  more  or  less  familiar  to  the 
Forest  for  several  years:  his  coming  and  going  were  watched 
and  speculated  upon.  Recently  he  had  imported  foreign 
labour,  much  to  the  sneering  contempt  of  the  natives  whose 
philosophy  did  not  include  the  necessity  of  perpetual  work 
and  certainly  repudiated  the  idea  of  outsiders  originating  a 
new  system.  But  Northrup  was  not  a  foreigner.  He  must 
be  regarded  from  a  different  angle. 

Aunt  Polly  made  it  her  business,  after  the  first  few  days, 
to  start  propaganda  of  a  safe  and  inspiring  character  about 
her  guest.  While  not  committing  herself  to  any  definite 
statement,  she  made  it  known  that  if  Northrup  had  any  con- 
nection with  Maclin,  he  was  against  him,  not  for  him. 

Maclin  just  then  was  the  hub  from  which  the  spokes  of 
curiosity  led. 

16 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  17 

"He  couldn't  be  for  Maclin,"  Polly  had  said  to  Peter. 
"You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do,  Peter  Heathcote.  And 
getting  facts  signed  and  witnessed  is  an  awful  waste  of  time. 
The  Lord  gave  women  a  sixth  sense  and  it's  a  powerful  sight 
surer  than  affidavits." 

Peter  grunted.  So  long  as  Polly  hinted  and  made  no  state- 
ments he  was  content.  He  believed  she  was  partly  right. 
He  thought  Northrup  might  be  on  Maclin's  trail,  and  from 
appearances  Peter  had  confidence  in  his  guest's  ability  to 
run  his  quarry  to  earth  where,  heretofore,  others  of  the  For- 
est had  failed. 

He  liked  Northrup,  believed  in  him,  and  while  he  sat  and 
nursed  his  leg,  he  let  Polly  do  her  hinting. 

It  was  the  evening  of  Northrup's  third  day  at  the  inn 
when  the  three,  with  Ginger  blinking  contentedly,  sat  by  the 
fire.  Polly  knitted  and  smiled  happily.  She  had  drifted 
that  day  into  calling  Northrup  "Brace"  and  that  betokened 
surrender.  Peter  puffed  and  regarded  his  bandaged  leg — 
he  had  taken  a  few  steps  during  the  afternoon,  leaning  on 
Northrup's  arm,  and  his  mood  was  one  of  supreme  satisfac- 
tion. 

Breaking  the  silence,  now  and  again,  an  irritating  sound 
of  a  bell  intruded.  It  was  a  disconcerting  note  for  it  had  a 
wild  quality  as  if  it  were  being  run  away  with  and  was 
sending  forth  an  appeal.  Loud;  soft;  near;  distant. 

"Is  there  a  church  around  here?"  Northrup  asked  at 
last. 

"There  is,"  Heathcote  replied,  taking  the  pipe  from  his 
lips.  "It's  the  half-built  church  I  mentioned  to  you.  A 
bit  down  the  line  you  come  to  a  bridge  across  an  arm  of 
the  lake.  On  a  little  island  is  the  chapel.  It  ain't  ever  used 
now.  Remember,  Polly,"  Heathcote  turned  to  his  sister, 
"the  last  time  the  Bishop  came  here?  Mary-Clare  was 
about  as  high  as  nothing,  and  just  getting  over  the  mumps. 
She  got  panicky  when  she  heard  of  the  Bishop,  asked  ole 
Doc  if  she  could  catch  it.  I  guess  the  Bishop  wasn't  catch- 
ing! Yes,  sir,  the  church  is  there,  but  it's  deserted." 

"What  is  the  bell  ringing  for?"  Northrup  roused,  more  be- 


i8  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

cause  the  name  of  Mary-Clare  had  been  introduced  than  be- 
cause the  bell  interested  him. 

He  knew,  now,  that  the  girl  in  the  yellow  house  was  Mary- 
Clare.  Her  name  slipped  into  sound  frequently,  but  that 
was  all. 

"Who  is  ringing  the  bell?" 

Aunt  Polly  rolled  her  knitting  carefully  and  set  her  glasses 
aslant  on  the  top  of  her  head.  Northrup  soon  learned  that 
the  angle  and  position  of  Aunt  Polly's  spectacles  were  signi- 
ficant. 

"No  human  hands  are  ringing  the  bell,"  she  remarked 
quietly.  "I  hold  one  notion,  Peter  another.  /  say  the  bell 
is  ha'nted;  calling,  calling  folks,  making  them  remember!" 

"Now,  Polly!"  Peter  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  on  to 
Ginger's  back.  "Don't  get  to  criss-crossing  and  apple- 
sassing  about  that  bell."  He  turned  to  Northrup  and  winked. 

"Women  is  curious,"  he  admitted.  "When  things  are 
flat  and  lacking  flavour  they  put  in  a  pinch  of  this  or  that  to 
spice  them  up.  Fact  is — there's  a  change  of  wind  and  it  ain't 
sot  yet.  While  it's  shifting  around  it  hits,  once  so  often,  a 
chink  in  the  belfry  that's  got  to  be  mended  some  day.  That's 
the  sum  and  tee-total  of  Polly's  ha'nted  tower." 

Then,  as  if  the  question  escaped  without  his  sanction  and 
quite  to  his  consternation,  Northrup  spoke  again: 

"Who  lives  in  the  yellow  house  by  the  crossroads?" 

This  was  not  honest.  Northrup  knew  who.  What  he 
wanted  to  say,  but  had  not  dared,  was:  "Tell  me  about 
her." 

"I  reckon  you  mean  Mary-Clare."  Aunt  Polly  shook  a 
finger  at  Ginger.  "That  dog,"  she  added,  "jest  naturally 
hates  the  bell  ringing.  Animals  sense  more  than  men!" 

This  slur  escaped  Peter,  he  was  intent  upon  Northrup's 
question. 

"Seen  that  girl  in  the  yellow  house?"  he  asked.  "Great 
girl,  Mary-Clare.  Great  girl." 

"I  stopped  there  on  my  way  here  to  ask  directions.  Rather 
unusual  looking  girl." 

"She  is  that!"   Peter  nodded.     Mary-Clare  was   about 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  19 

the  only  bit  of  romance  Peter  permitted  himself.  "Re- 
member the  night  Mary-Clare  was  born,  Polly?" 

Of  course  Polly  remembered.  Northrup  felt  fully  con- 
vinced that  Polly  knew  everything  in  King's  Forest  and 
never  forgot  it.  She  nodded,  drew  her  spectacles  over  her 
eyes,  and  continued  her  knitting  while  Peter  hit  the  high  spots 
of  Mary-Clare's  past.  Somehow  the  shallows  Northrup  was 
filling  while  he  listened. 

Peter  was  in  his  element  and  drawled  on: 

"The  wildest  storm  you  ever  saw  round  these  parts — snow 
and  gale;  they  don't  usually  hang  together  long,  but  they 
did  that  night.  It  was  a  regular  night  if  there  ever  was  one. 
Nobody  stirring  abroad  'less  he  had  to.  Ole  Doc  was  out — 
someone  over  the  mine-way  had  got  mussed  up  with  the 
machinery.  Ole  Doc  was  a  minister  as  well  as  a  doctor. 
He'd  tried  both  jobs  and  used  to  say  it  came  in  handy,  but  he 
leaned  most  to  medicine  as  being,  what  you  might  say,  more 
practical." 

"You  needn't  be  sacrilegious,  brother,"  Polly  inter* 
jected.  "The  story  won't  lose  anything  by  holding  to 
reverence." 

"Oh,  well,"  Heathcote  chuckled,  "have  it  any  way  you 
want  to.  Ole  Doc  had  us  coming  and  going,  that's  what  I'm 
getting  over.  If  he  found  he  couldn't  help  folks  to  live,  he 
plumped  about  and  helped  'em  to  die.  Great  man,  ole  Doc! 
Came  as  you  did,  son,  and  settled.  We  never  knew  any- 
thing about  his  life  before  he  took  root  here.  Well,  that 
night  I'm  telling  you  about,  he  was  on  his  way  back  from  the 
mines  when  he  spied  a  fire  on  the  up-side  of  the  lake.  He  said 
it  looked  mighty  curious  shining  and  flaming  in  the  blinding 
whiteness.  It  was  Dan  Hamlin's  shack.  Later  we  heard 
what  had  happened.  Dan  had  come  home  drunk — when  he 
wasn't  drunk  you  couldn't  find  a  decenter  man  than  Hamlin, 
but  liquor  made  him  quarrelsome.  His  wife  was  going  to 
have  a  baby — Mary-Clare,  to  be  exact — and  when  he  came 
in  with  Jack  Seaver,  the  mail-carrier,  there  was  a  row  on  con- 
cerning something  Seaver  hadn't  brought  that  Hamlin  had 
ordered  for  his  wife.  There  never  was  any  reasoning  with 


20  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Hamlin  when  he  was  drunk,  so  Seaver  tried  to  settle  the  ques- 
tion by  a  fight.  Seaver  was  like  that — never  had  any  pa- 
tience. Lamp  turned  over,  set  the  shack  on  fire!"  Peter 
breathed  hard. 

"Mrs.  Hamlin  ran  for  her  life  and  the  two  men  ran  from 
justice.  Seaver  came  back  later  and  told  the  story.  Ham- 
lin shot  himself  the  following  day  when  he  heard  what  had 
happened.  Blamed  fool  I  Mary-Clare  was  left,  but  she 
didn't  seem  to  amount  to  much  in  the  beginning.  It  was 
this  way:  Mrs.  Hamlin  ran  till  she  fell  in  a  snowdrift.  Ole 
Doc  found  her  there."  Heathcote  paused.  The  logs  fell 
apart  and  the  room  grew  hot.  Northrup  started  as  if 
roused  from  a  dream." 

"Yes,  sir!"  Heathcote  went  on.  "Ole  Doc  found  her  there 
and,  well,  sir,  he  was  doctor  and  minister  for  sure  that  night. 
There  wasn't  no  choice  as  you  might  say.  Mary-Clare 
was  born  in  that  snowdrift,  and  the  mother  died  there!  Ole 
Doc  took  'em  both  home  later." 

"Good  God!"  ejaculated  Northrup.  "That's  the  grim- 
mest tale  I  ever  listened  to.  What  came  next?" 

"The  funeral — a  double  one,  for  they  brought  Hamlin's 
body  back.  Then  the  saving  of  Mary-Clare.  Polly  and  I 
wanted  her — but  ole  Doc  said  he'd  have  to  keep  an  eye  on  her 
for  a  while — she  seemed  sorter  petering  out  for  some  time, 
and  then  when  she  took  a  turn  and  caught  on,  you  couldn't 
pry  her  away  from  ole  Doc.  He  gave  her  his  name  and 
everything  else.  His  wife  was  dead;  his  boy  away  to  school, 
his  housekeeper  was  a  master  hand  with  babies,  and  somehow 
ole  Doc  got  to  figuring  out  that  Mary-Clare  was  a  recom- 
pense for  what  he'd  lost  in  women  folks,  and  so  he  raised 
her  and  taught  her.  Good  Lord,  the  education  he  pumped 
into  that  girl!  He  wouldn't  let  her  go  to  school,  but  when- 
ever he  happened  to  think  of  anything  he  taught  it  to  her, 
and  he  was  powerful  educated.  Said  he  wanted  to  see  what 
he  could  do  by  answering  her  questions  and  letting  her  think 
things  out  for  herself.  Remember,  Polly,  how  Mary-Clare 
used  to  ride  behind  ole  Doc  with  a  book  braced  up  against 
his  back?" 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  21 

Aunt  Polly  lifted  the  sock  she  was  knitting  and  wiped  her 
eyes. 

"Mary-Clare  just  naturally  makes  you  laugh  and  cry 
at  once,"  the  old  voice  replied,  "remembering  her  is  real 
diverting.  She  came  from  plain,  decent  stock,  but  some- 
thing was  grafted  onto  her  while  she  was  young  and  it  made 
a  new  kind  of  girl  of  Mary-Clare.  So  loving  and  loyal." 
Again  Aunt  Polly  wiped  her  eyes. 

"And  brave  and  grateful,"  Heathcote  took  up  his  story, 
"and  terrible  far-seeing.  I  don't  hold  with  Polly  that  Mary- 
Clare  became  something  new  by  grafting.  Seems  more  like 
she  was  two  girls,  both  keeping  pace  and  watching  out  and 
one  standing  guard  if  the  other  took  a  time  off.  I  never  did 
feel  sure  ole  Doc  was  quite  fair  with  Mary-Clare.  Without 
meaning  to,  he  got  a  stranglehold  on  that  girl.  She'd  have 
trotted  off  to  hell  for  him,  or  with  him.  She'd  have  held  her 
head  high  and  laughed  it  off,  too.  I  don't  suppose  any  one 
on  God's  earth  actually  knows  what  the  real  Mary-Clare 
thinks  about  things  on  her  own  hook,  but  you  bet  she  has 
ideas!" 

Northrup  was  more  interested  than  he  had  been  in  many  a 
day.  The  story  thrilled  him.  The  girl  of  the  yellow  house 
loomed  large  upon  his  vision  and  he  began  to  understand. 
He  was  not  one  to  scoff  at  things  beyond  the  pale  of  exact 
science;  his  craft  was  one  that  took  much  for  granted  that 
could  not  be  reduced  to  fact.  Standing  at  the  door  of  the 
little  yellow  house  he  had  become  a  victim  of  suggestion. 
That  accounted  for  it.  The  mists  were  passing.  He  had 
not  been  such  an  ass,  after  all. 

"So!  that  is  your  old  doctor's  place  down  by  the  cross- 
roads ?"  he  said  with  a  genuine  sense  of  relief. 

"It  was.     Ole  Doc  died  seven  years  back." 

"What  became  of  his  son — you  said  he  had  a  boy?" 
Northrup  was  gathering  the  threads  in  his  hands.  Nothing 
must  escape  him;  it  was  all  grist. 

"Oh!  Larry  came  off  and  on  the  scene.  There  are  them 
as  think  ole  Doc  didn't  treat  Larry  fair  and  square.  I  don't 
know,  but  anyway,  just  before  ole  Doc  was  struck  with  that 


22  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

stroke  that  finished  him,  Larry  came  home  and  seemed  to  be 
forgiving  enough,  if  there  had  been  any  wrong  done.  He 
had  considerable  education;  ole  Doc  had  given  him  that 
chance,  but  Larry  drifted — alias  was,  and  still  is,  a  drifter. 
We  all  stand  pat  for  the  feller  on  account  of  his  father  and 
Mary-Clare.  It  was  a  blamed  risky  thing,  though,  Larry's 
marrying  Mary-Clare!  I  alias  will  hold  to  that!" 

Once,  when  Northrup  was  a  young  boy,  he  had  been 
shocked  by  electricity.  The  memory  of  his  experience  often 
recurred  to  him  in  moments  of  stress.  He  had  been  standing 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  tree  that  had  been  shattered,  and 
he  had  fallen  unconscious.  When  he  came  to,  he  was  vividly 
aware  of  the  slightest  details  of  sight  and  sound  surrounding 
him.  His  senses  seemed  to  have  been  quickened  during 
the  lapse  of  time.  He  winced  at  the  light;  the  flickering  of 
leaves  above  him  hurt;  the  song  of  birds  beat  against  his 
brain  with  sweet  clamour,  and  he  vaguely  wondered  what 
had  happened  to  him;  where  he  had  been? 

In  like  manner  Northrup,  now,  was  aware  of  a  painful 
keenness  of  his  senses.  Heathcote  looked  large  and  his  voice 
vibrated  in  the  quiet  room;  Aunt  Polly  seemed  dwindling, 
physically,  while  something  about  her — the  light  playing 
on  her  knitting  needles  and  spectacles,  probably — radiated. 
The  crackling  logs  were  like  claps  of  thunder.  Northrup 
pulled  himelf  to  an  upright  position  as  one  does  who  resists 
hypnotism. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  tiring  Brace,  brother." 

Aunt  Polly's  voice,  low,  even,  and  calm,  gofinto  the  con> 
fusion  as  a  soft  breeze  had,  that  day  so  long  ago,  and  brought 
full  consciousness  in  its  wake. 

"On  the  other  hand,"  Northrup  gave  a  relieved  laugh, 
"I  am  intensely  interested.  You  see,  she  looks  so  young, 
that  Mrs. — Mrs.— 

"Rivers?"  suggested  Heathcote  refilling  his  pipe.  "Lord! 
I  wonder  if  any  one  ever  called  Mary-Clare  Mrs.  Rivers  be- 
fore, Polly?"  Heathcote  paused,  then  went  on: 

"Yes;  Mary-Clare  holds  her  own  and  her  boy-togs  help 
the  idea.  Mary-Clare  ain't  properly  grown  up,  anyway. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  23 

Some  parts  of  her  are  terrible  strong  and  thrifty;  parts  as  has 
caught  the  sunlight,  so  to  speak,  and  been  sheltered  from 
blasts.  The  other  parts  of  her  ain't  what  you  might  say 
shrivelled,  but  they've  kept  hid  and  they  ain't  ever  on  ex- 
hibition." 

"How  ridiculous  you  are,  brother."  Aunt  Polly  was  en- 
joying her  brother's  flights,  but  felt  called  upon  to  keep  him 
in  order. 

"Oh!  it's  just  a  blamed  amusing  fancy  of  mine,"  Heath- 
cote  chuckled,  "to  calculate  'bout  Mary-Clare.  You  see, 
being  a  magistrate,  I  married  Mary-Clare  to  Larry,  and 
I've  never  been  at  ease  about  the  thing,  though  I  had  to  put 
it  through.  There  lay  ole  Doc  looking  volumes  and  not 
being  able  to  speak  a  word — nothing  to  do  for  him  but  keep 
him  company  and  try  to  find  out  what  he  wanted.  He  kept 
on  wanting  something  like  all  possessed.  Larry  and  Mary- 
Clare  hung  over  him  asking,  was  it  this  or  that?  and  his  big, 
burning  eyes  sorter  flickering,  never  steady.  I  recall  old 
Peneluna  Todd  was  there  and  she  said  the  young  uns  were 
pestering  the  pie  Doc.  Then,  it  was  'long  about  midnight, 
Larry  rose  up  from  asking  some  question,  and  there  was  a 
new  look  on  his  face,  a  white,  frozen  kind  of  look.  Mary- 
Clare  kinder  sprang  at  him.  'What  is  it?'  she  whispered, 
and  I  ain't  never  forgot  her  face.  At  first  Larry  didn't  an- 
swer and  he  began  shaking,  like  he  had  the  chills. 

"You  must  tell  me,  Larry!'  Mary-Clare  went  up  close 
and  took  Larry  by  the  shoulders  as  if  she  was  going  to  tear 
his  secret  from  him.  Then  she  went  on  to  say  how  he  had 
no  right  to  keep  anything  from  her — her,  as  would  give  her 
soul  for  the  ole  Doc.  She  meant  it,  too.  Well,  Larry  sort 
of  dragged  it  out  of  himself.  Ole  Doc  wanted  him  and 
Mary-Clare  to  marry!  That  was  what  was  wanted!  There 
wasn't  much  time  to  consider  things,  but  Mary-Clare  went 
close  to  the  bed  and  knelt  down  and  said  slowly  and  real 
tender: 

"You  can  hear  me,  can't  you,  Daddy?'  The  flicker  in 
ole  Doc's  eyes  steadied.  I  reckon  any  call  of  Mary-Clare's 
could  halt  him,  short  of  the  other  side  of  Jordan.  'Then, 


24  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

dearie  Dad,  listen.'  Just  like  that  she  said  it.  I  remember 
every  word.  'You  want  me  to  marry  Larry — now?  It 
would  make  you — happy?'  The  steady  look  seemed  to 
kinder  freeze.  I  called  it  a  listening  look  more  than  an 
understanding  one.  I'll  alias  hold  to  that,  but  God  knows 
there  warn't  much  time  to  calculate.  Peneluna  began 
acting  up  but  Mary-Clare  set  her  aside. 

"'All  right,  Daddy  darling!'  she  whispered,  and  with  that 
she  stood  up  and  said  to  me,  'You  marry  us  at  once!  Come 
close  so  that  he  can  see  and  know!' 

"Things  go  here  in  the  Forest  that  don't  go  elsewhere;  I 
married  them  two  because  I  couldn't  help  it — something 
drew  me  on.  And  then  just  when  I  got  to  the  end,  ole 
Doc  rose  up  like  he  was  lifted — he  stared  at  what  was  pass- 
ing; tried  to  say  something,  and  sank  back  smiling — dead!" 

Northrup  wiped  his  forehead.  There  were  drops  of  per- 
spiration on  it,  and  his  breath  came  roughly  through  his 
throat;  he  seemed  part  of  the  dramatic  scene. 

"Satisfied,  /  say!"  broke  in  Aunt  Polly.  "It  was  a  big 
risk,  but  the  dying  see  far,  and  the  doctor  had  left  all  he  had 
to  Mary-Clare,  which  didn't  seem  just  right  to  his  flesh-and- 
blood  boy,  and  I  guess  he  wanted  to  mend  a  bad  matter 
the  only  way  he  could." 

"Maybe!"  sighed  Peter.  "Maybe.  But  he  took  big 
chances  even  for  a  dying  man.  I  couldn't  get  rid  of  the 
notion  that  when  he  cottoned  to  what  had  been  done,  he 
sorter  threw  up  his  hands!  But  what  happened  to  Mary- 
Clare  just  took  my  breath.  'Pon  my  soul,  as  I  looked  at  her 
it  was  like  I  saw  her  going  away  after  ole  Doc  and  leaving, 
in  her  place,  a  new,  different  woman  that  really  didn't  count 
so  long  as  she  looked  after  things  while  the  real  Mary-Clare 
went  about  her  business.  It  was  disturbing  and  I  felt 
downright  giddy." 

"You're  downright  silly,  Peter  Heathcote" — Polly  tossed 
her  knitting  aside  and  shifted  the  pillows  of  the  couch — 
"making  Mary-Clare  out  the  way  you  do  when  she's  or- 
dinary enough  and  doing  her  life  tasks  same  as  other 
folks." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  25 

"How  has  it  worked  out?"  Northrup  heard  the  words  as 
if  another  spoke  them. 

"I  guess,  friend,  that's  what  no  one  actually  knows." 
Peter  pulled  on  his  pipe.  "  Larry  is  on  and  off.  Maclin,  over 
to  the  mines,  seems  to  do  the  ordering  of  Larry's  coming  and 
going.  Darned  funny  business,  I  say.  However,  there 
you  are.  When  Larry  is  home  I  guess  the  way  Mary-Clare 
holds  her  head  and  laughs  gets  on  his  nerves.  No  man 
likes  to  feel  that  he  can't  clutch  hold  of  his  wife,  but  it 
comes  to  that,  say  what  you  will,  Mary-Clare  keeps  free 
of  things  in  a  mighty  odd  fashion;  I  mean  the  real  part  of 
her;  the  other  part  goes  regular  enough. 

"She  don't  slacken  up  on  her  plain  duty.  What  the  ole 
Doc  left  she  shares  right  enough  with  Larry;  she  keeps  the 
house  like  it  should  be  kept,  and  she's  a  good  second  to  Polly 
here,  where  fodder  is  concerned.  But  something  happened 
when  Larry  was  last  home  that  leaked  out  somehow.  A 
girl  called  Jan-an  let  it  slip.  Not  a  quarrel  exactly,  but  a 
thing  that  wasn't  rightfully  settled.  Larry  was  ordered  off, 
sudden,  by  Maclin,  but  take  it  from  me,  when  Larry  comes 
back  he'll  get  his  innings.  Larry  isn't  what  you  could  call 
a  sticker,  but  he  gets  there  all  the  same.  He  ain't  going  to 
let  any  woman  go  too  far  with  him.  That's  where  Larry 
comes  out  strong — with  women." 

"I  don't  know  as  you  ought  to  talk  so  free,  brother." 
Polly  looked  dubious. 

"In  the  meantime,"  Northrup  said  quietly,  "the  little 
wife  lives  alone  in  the  yellow  house,  waiting?"  He  hadn't 
heard  Polly's  caution. 

He  was  thinking  of  Mary-Clare's  look  when  she  confronted 
him  the  day  of  his  coming.  Was  she  expecting  her  hus- 
band? Had  she  learned  to  love  him?  Was  she  that  kind 
of  woman?  The  kind  that  thrives  on  neglect  and  indif- 
ference? 

"Not  alone,  as  you  might  say,"  Heathcote's  voice  drawled. 
"There's  Noreen,  her  little  girl,  you  know.  Noreen  seems 
at  times  to  be  about  a  thousand  years  older  than  her  mother, 
but  by  actual  count  she's  going  on  six,  ain't  that  it,  Polly?" 


26  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Again  Northrup  felt  as  he  had  that  day  by  the  lightning- 
shattered  tree. 

"Her  little  girl?"  he  asked  slowly,  and  Aunt  Polly  raised 
her  eyes  to  his  face.  She  looked  troubled,  vaguely  uneasy. 

"Yep!"  Peter  rose  stiffly.  He  wanted  to  go  to  bed. 
"Noreen's  the  saving  from  the  litter.  How  many  was 
there,  Polly?" 

Polly  got  upon  her  feet,  the  trouble-look  growing  in  her 
eyes. 

"Noreen  had  a  twin  as  was  dead,"  she  said  tenderly. 
"Then  the  last  one  lived  two  hours — that's  all,  brother." 
She  walked  to  the  window.  "The  storm  is  setting  this 
way,"  she  went  on.  "Just  listen  to  that  lake  acting  up  as  if 
it  was  the  ocean." 

The  riotous  swish  of  the  water  sounded  distant  but  in- 
sistent in  the  warm,  quiet  room,  and  faintly,  at  rare  intervals, 
the  bell,  rung  by  unseen  forces,  struck  dully.  It  had  given 
Up  the  struggle. 

Northrup,  presently,  had  a  strong  inclination  to  say  to  his 
host  that  he  had  changed  his  mind  and  must  leave  on  the 
morrow.  That  course  seemed  the  only  safe  and  wise  one. 

"But  why?"  Something  new  and  uncontrolled  de- 
manded an  answer.  Why,  indeed?  Why  should  anything 
he  had  heard  cause  him  to  change  his  plans?  This  hectic 
story  of  a  young  woman  had  set  his  imagination  afire,  but 
it  must  not  make  a  fool  of  him.  What  really  was  taking 
place  became  presently  overpoweringly  convincing. 

"I  am  going  to  write!" 

That  was  it!  The  story  had  struck  his  dull  brain  into 
action  and  he  had  been  caught  in  time,  before  running  away. 
He  had  gained  the  thing  he  had  been  pursuing,  and  he  might 
have  let  it  escape!  The  woman  of  the  yellow  house  became  a 
mere  bearer  of  a  rare  gift — his  restored  power!  He  was 
safe;  everything  was  safe.  The  world  had  righted  itself 
at  last.  It  wasn't  the  woman  with  the  dun-coloured  ending 
to  her  story  that  mattered;  it  was  the  story. 

"I  think  I'll  turn  in,"  he  said,  stifling  a  yawn.  "Good- 
night." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  27 

"Don't  hurry  about  breakfast,"  Aunt  Polly  said  gently. 
"Breakfast  is  only  a  starter,  I  always  hold.  It's  like  kin- 
dlings to  start  the  big  logs.  Sleep  well,  and  God  bless  you!" 

She  smiled  up  at  her  guest  as  if  he  were  an  old  friend — 
come  back! 

Up  in  his  room  Northrup  had  difficulty  in  keeping  himself 
from  work.  He  dared  not  begin;  if  he  did  he  would  write  all 
night.  He  must  be  sure.  In  the  meantime,  he  wrote  to  his 
mother: 

By  the  above  heading  you'll  see  how  far  I've  got  on  my  way, 
searching  for  my  lost  health.  I'm  really  in  great  shape.  Manly 
was  right:  I  had  to  let  go!  I'm  struggling  now  between  two 
courses.  Apparently  I  was  in  a  blue  funk;  all  I  needed  was  to  find 
it  out.  Well,  I've  found  it  out.  Shall  I  come  home  and  prove  it 
by  doing  the  sensible  thing,  or  shall  I  go  on  and  make  it  doubly 
sure?  If  anything  important  turns  up  I  would  telegraph,  but  in  case 
I  do  go  on  I  want  to  do  the  job  thoroughly  and  for  a  time  lose  my- 
self. I  will  wait  your  word,  Mother. 

Northrup  was  not  seeking  to  deceive  any  one.  He  might 
strike  out  for  new  places  in  a  week,  or  he  might,  if  the  mood 
held,  write  in  King's  Forest.  It  all  depended  upon  the  mood. 
What  really  mattered  was  an  unfettered  state. 

The  vagrant  in  him,  that  had  been  starved  and  denied, 
rose  supreme.  Now  that  he  was  sure  that  he  was  going  to 
write,  had  a  big  theme,  there  was  excuse  for  his  desire  to  be 
free.  He  would  return  to  his  chink  in  the  wall,  as  Manly 
explained,  better  fitted  for  it  and  with  a  wider  vision.  He 
had  a  theory  that  a  writer  was,  more  or  less,  like  a  person 
with  a  contagious  disease:  he  should  be  exiled  until  all  danger 
to  the  peace  and  happiness  of  others  was  past.  If  only  the 
evenly  balanced  folks  would  see  that  and  not  act  as  if  they 
were  being  insulted! 

While  he  undressed,  Northrup  was  sketching  his  plot  men- 
tally. In  the  morning  it  would  be  fixed;  it  would  be  more 
like  copying  than  creating  when  a  pen  was  resorted  to. 

"I'll  take  that  girl  in  the  yellow  house  and  do  no  end  of 
things  with  her.  Dual  personality!  Lord,  and  in  this  stag- 


28  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

nant  pool!  All  right.  Dual  personality.  Now  she  must 
get  a  jog  about  her  husband  and  wake  up!  Two  men  and 
one  woman.  Triangle,  of  course.  Nothing  new  under  God's 
heaven.  It's  the  handling  of  the  ragged  old  things.  I  can 
make  rather  a  big  story  out  of  the  ingredients  at  hand." 

Northrup  felt  that  he  was  going  to  sleep;  going  to  rise  to 
the  restored  desire  for  work.  No  wonder  he  laughed  and 
whistled — softly;  he  had  overtaken  himself! 

Three  days  later  a  telegram  came  from  Mrs.  Northrup. 

"Go  on,"  it  said  simply.  Mrs.  Northrup  knew  when  it 
was  wisest  to  let  go.  But  this  was  not  true  of  Kathryn 
Morris,  the  other  woman  most  closely  attached  to  Northrup's 
life.  Kathryn  never  let  go.  When  she  lost  interest  in  any 
one,  or  anything,  she  flung  it,  or  him,  from  her  with  no  doubt- 
ful attitude  of  mind.  Kathryn  meant  to  marry  Northrup 
some  day  and  he  fully  expected  to  marry  her,  though  neither 
of  them  could  ever  recall  just  when,  or  how,  this  understand- 
ing had  been  arrived  at. 

It  was,  to  all  appearances,  a  most  fitting  outcome  to  close 
family  interests  and  friendships.  It  had  just  naturally  hap- 
pened up  to  the  point  when  both  would  desire  to  bring  it  to 
a  culmination.  The  next  step,  naturally,  must  be  taken  by 
Kathryn  for,  when  Northrup  had  ventured  to  suggest,  dur- 
ing his  convalescence,  a  definite  date  for  their  wedding, 
Kathryn  had,  with  great  show  of  tenderness,  pushed  the 
matter  aside. 

The  fact  was,  marriage  to  Kathryn  was  not  a  terminal,  but 
a  way  station  where  one  was  obliged  to  change  for  another 
stretch  on  a  pleasant  and  unhampered  journey,  and  she 
had  no  intention  of  marrying  a  possible  invalid  or,  perhaps, 
a  dying  man. 

So  while  Northrup  struggled  out  of  his  long  and  serious 
illness,  Kathryn  played  her  little  game  under  cover.  Some 
women,  rather  dull  and  stupid  ones,  can  do  this  admirably 
if  they  are  young  enough  and  lovely  enough  to  carry  it 
through,  and  Kathryn  was  both.  She  had  also  that  peculiar 
asset  of  looking  divinely  intuitive  and  sweet  during  her 
silences,  and  it  would  have  taken  a  keen  reader  of  human 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  29 

nature  to  decide  whether  Kathryn  Morris's  silences  brooded 
over  a  rare  storeroom  of  treasure  or  over  a  haunted  and 
empty  chamber. 

Without  any  one  being  aware  of  the  reasons  for  his  re- 
appearance, a  certain  Alexander  Arnold  materialized  while 
Northrup  had  been  at  his  worst.  Sandy  Arnold  had  figured 
rather  vehemently  in  the  year  following  Kathryn's  "coming 
out,"  but  had  faded  away  when  Northrup  began  to  show 
signs  of  becoming  famous. 

Arnold  was  a  man  who  made  money  and  lost  it  in  a  breath- 
taking fashion,  but  gradually  he  was  steadying  himself 
and  was  more  often  up  than  down — he  was  decidedly  up  at 
the  time  of  Northrup's  darkest  hour;  he  was  still  refusing 
to  disappear  when  Northrup  emerged  from  the  shadows 
and  showed  signs  of  persisting.  This  was  disconcerting. 
Kathryn  faced  a  situation,  and  situations  were  never  thrilling 
to  her:  she  lacked  the  sporting  spirit;  she  always  played  safe 
or  endeavoured  to.  Sandy  was  still  in  evidence  when  North- 
rup disappeared  from  the  scene. 

Mrs.  Northrup  read  Brace's  letter  to  Kathryn,  and  some- 
thing in  the  girl  rose  in  alarm.  This  ignoring  of  her,  for 
whatever  reason,  was  most  disturbing.  Brace  should  have 
taken  her,  if  not  his  mother,  into  his  confidence.  Instead  he 
had  "cut  and  run" — that  was  the  way  Kathryn  thought  of  it. 
Aloud  she  said,  with  that  ravishing  look  of  hers: 

"How  very  Brace-like!  Getting  material  and  colour  I 
suppose  he  calls  it.  I  wish  " —  this  with  a  tender,  yearning 
smile — "I  wish,  for  your  sake  and  mine,  dear,  that  his  genius 
ran  in  another  direction,  stocks  or  banking — anything  with 
an  office.  It  is  so  worrying,  this  trick  of  his  of  hunting  plots." 

"  I  only  hope  that  he  can  write  again,"  Mrs.  Northrup  re- 
turned, patting  the  letter  on  her  knee.  Once  she  had 
wanted  to  write,  but  she  had  had  her  son  instead.  In  her 
day  women  did  not  have  professions  and  sons.  They  chose. 
Well,  she  had  chosen,  and  paid  the  price.  Her  husband  had 
cost  her  much;  her  son  was  her  recompense.  He  was  her 
interpreter,  also. 

"Where  do  you  think  he'll  go?"  Kathryn  asked. 


30  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"He'll  tell  us  when  he  comes  home."  There  was  some- 
thing cryptic  about  Helen  Northrup  when  she  was  seeking  to 
help  her  son.  Kathryn  once  more  bridled.  She  was  direct 
herself,  very  direct,  but  her  advances  were  made  under  a 
barrage  fire. 

Her  next  step  was  to  go  to  Doctor  Manly.  She  chose  his 
office  hour,  waited  her  turn,  and  then  pleaded  wakefulness 
and  headache  as  her  excuse  for  the  call. 

Manly  hated  wakefulness  and  headaches.  You  couldn't 
put  them  under  the  X-ray;  you  couldn't  operate  on  them; 
you  had  to  deal  with  them  by  faith.  Kathryn  was  not 
lacking  in  imagination  and  she  gave  a  fairly  accurate  descrip- 
tion of  long,  black  hours  and  consequent  pain — "here." 
She  touched  the  base  of  her  brain.  She  vaguely  recalled 
that  the  nerve  centres  were  in  that  locality. 

Manly  was  impressed  and  while  he  was  off  on  that  scent, 
somehow  Northrup  got  into  the  conversation. 

"I  cannot  help  worrying  about  Brace,  more  for  his  mother's 
sake  than  his."  Kathryn  looked  very  sweet  and  womanly, 
"He  has  been  so  ill  and  the  letter  his  mother  has  just  re> 
ceived  is  disturbing." 

Here  Kathryn  quoted  it  and  Manly  grinned. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said,  shaking  a  bottle  of  pills.  "It 
does  a  human  creature  no  end  of  good  to  run  away  at  times. 
I  often  wonder  why  more  of  us  don't  do  it  and  come  back 
keener  and  better." 

"Some  of  us  have  duties."  Kathryn  looked  noble  and 
self-sacrificing. 

"Some  of  us  would  perform  them  a  darned  sight  better  if 
we  took  the  half  holiday  now  and  then  that  the  soul,  or  what- 
ever you  call  it,  craves.  Now  Northrup  ought  to  look  to 
his  job — it  is  a  job  in  his  case.  You  wouldn't  expect  a  travel- 
ling salesman  to  hang  around  his  shop  all  the  time,  would 
you?" 

Kathryn  had  never  had  any  experience  with  travelling 
salesmen — she  wasn't  clear  as  to  their  mission  in  life.  So  she 
said  doubtfully: 

"I  suppose  not." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  31 

"Certainly  not!  An  office  man  is  one  thing;  a  professional 
man,  another;  and  these  wandering  Johnnies,  like  Northrup, 
still  another  breed.  He's  been  starving  his  scent — that's 
what  I  told  him.  Too  much  woman  in  his — and  I  don't 
mean  to  hurt  you,  Kathryn,  but  you  ought  to  get  it  into  your 
system  that  marrying  a  man  like  Northrup  is  like  marry- 
ing a  doctor  or  minister;  you've  got  to  have  a  lot  of  faith 
or  you're  going  to  break  your  man." 

Kathryn's  eyes  contracted,  then  she  laughed. 

"How  charming  you  are,  Doctor  Manly,  when  you're 
making  talk.  Are  those  pills  bitter?"  Kathryn  reached  out 
for  them.  "Not  that  I  mind,  but  I  hate  to  be  taken  by  sur- 
prise." 

"They're  as  bitter  as — well,  they're  quinine.  You  need 
toning  up." 

"You  think  I  need  a  change?"     The  tone  was  pensive. 

"Change?"  Manly  had  a  sense  of  humour.  "Well,  yes,  I 
do.  Go  to  bed  early.  Cut  out  rich  food;  you'll  be  fat  at 
forty  if  you  don't,  Miss  Kathryn.  Take  up  some  good 
physical  work,  not  exercises.  Really,  it  would  be  a  great 
thing  for  you  if  you  discharged  one  of  your  maids." 

"Which  one,  Doctor  Manly?" 

"The  one  who  is  on  her  feet  most." 

And  so,  while  Northrup  settled  down  in  King's  Forest,  and 
his  mother  fancied  him  travelling  far,  Kathryn  set  her  pretty 
lips  close  and  jotted  down  the  address  of  Helen  Northrup's 
letter  in  a  small  red  book. 


CHAPTER  III 

MARY-CLARE  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  little 
yellow  house.  Her  mud-stained  clothes  gave  evi- 
dence that  the  recent  storm  had  not  kept  her  indoors 
— she  was  really  in  a  very  messy,  caked  state — but  it  was 
always  good  to  breathe  the  air  after  a  big  storm;  it  was  so 
alive  and  thrilling,  and  she  had  put  off  a  change  of  dress 
while  she  debated  a  second  trip.  There  was  a  stretching- 
out  look  on  Mary-Clare's  face  and  her  eyes  were  turned 
to  a  little  trail  leading  into  the  hilly  woods  across  the  high- 
way. 

Noreen  came  to  the  door  and  stood  close  to  her  mother. 
Noreen  was  only  six,  but  at  times  she  looked  ageless.  When 
the  child  abandoned  herself  to  pure  enjoyment,  she  talked 
baby  talk  and — played.  But  usually  she  was  on  guard,  in 
a  fierce  kind  of  blind  adoration  for  her  mother.  Just  what 
the  child  feared  no  one  could  tell,  but  there  was  a  constant 
appearance  of  alertness  in  her  attitude  even  in  her  happiest 
moments. 

"I  guess  you  want  the  woods,  Motherly?"  The  small  up- 
turned face  made  the  young  mother's  heart  beat  quicker; 
the  tie  was  strong  between  them. 

"I  do,  Noreen.  It  has  been  ten  whole  days  since  I  had 
them." 

"Well,  Motherly,  why  don't  you  go?" 

"And  leave  my  baby  alone?" 

"I'll  get  Jan-an  to  come!" 

"Oh!  you  blessed!"  Mary-Clare  bent  and  kissed  the  wor- 
shipping face.  "I  tell  you,  Sweetheart.  Mother  will  take  a 
bite  of  lunch  and  go  up  the  trail,  if  you  will  go  to  Jan-an. 
If  you  cannot  find  her,  then  come  up  the  trail  to  Motherly — • 
how  will  that  do?" 

32 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  33 

"Yes,"  Noreen  sweetly  acquiesced.  "I'll  come  to  the — 
the "  she  waited  for  the  word. 

"Yawning  Gap,"  suggested  the  mother,  reverting  to  a 
dearly  loved  romance. 

"Yes.  I'll  come  to  the  Yawning  Gap  and  I'll  give  the 
call." 

"And  I'll  call  back:  Oh!  wow!— Oh!  wo!"  The  musical 
voice  rose  like  a  flute  and  Noreen  danced  about. 

"And  I'll  answer:  wo  wow! — oh!"  The  piping  tones  were 
also  flutelike,  an  echo  of  the  mother's. 

"And  then,  down  will  fall  the  drawbridge  with  a  mighty 
clatter."  Mary-Clare  looked  majestic  even  in  her  muddy 
trousers  as  she  portrayed  the  action.  "And  over  the  Gap 
will  come  the  Princess  Light-of-my-Heart  with  her  message." 

"Ah!  yes,  Motherly.  It  will  be  such  fun.  But  if  Jan-an 
can  come  here  to  stay,  then  what?"  the  voice  faltered. 

"Why,  Light-of-my-Heart,  I  will  return  strong  and 
hungry,  and  Jan-an  and  my  Princess  and  I  will  sit  by  the 
fire  to-night  and  roast  chestnuts  and  apples  and  there  will 
be  such  a  story  as  never  was  before." 

"  Both  ways  are  beautiful  ways,  Motherly.  I  don't  know 
which  is  bestest." 

It  was  always  so  with  Mary-Clare  and  Noreen,  all  ways 
were  alluring;  but  the  child  had  deep  intuitions,  and  so  she 
set  her  face  at  once  away  from  the  little  yellow  house  and  the 
mother  in  the  doorway,  and  started  on  her  quest  of  Jan-an. 

When  the  child  had  passed  from  sight  Mary-Clare  packed  a 
bit  of  luncheon  in  a  basket  and  ran  lightly  across  the  road. 
She  looked  back,  making  sure  that  no  one  was  watching  her 
movements,  then  she  plunged  into  the  woods,  her  head  low- 
ered, and  her  heart  throbbing  high. 

The  trail  was  not  an  easy  one — Mary-Clare  had  seen  to 
that! — and  as  no  one  but  Noreen  and  herself  ever  trod  it, 
it  was  hardly  discernible  to  the  uninitiated.  Up  and  up 
the  path  led  until  it  ended  at  a  rough,  crude  cabin  almost 
hidden  by  a  tangle  of  vines. 

Looking  back  over  the  years  of  her  married  life,  Mary- 
Clare  often  wondered  how  she  could  have  endured  them  but 


34  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

for  the  vision  and  strength  she  received  in  her  "  Place,"  as  she 
whimsically  called  it — getting  her  idea  from  a  Bible  verse. 

Among  the  many  things  that  old  Doctor  Rivers  had  given 
Mary-Clare  was  a  knowledge  and  love  of  the  Bible.  He  had 
offered  the  book  to  her  as  literature  and  early  in  life  she  had 
responded  to  the  appeal.  The  verse  that  had  inspired  her  to 
restore  a  deserted  cabin  to  a  thing  of  beauty  and  eventually 
a  kind  of  sanctuary,  was  this: 

And  the  woman  fled  into  the  wilderness  where  she  hath  a  place 
prepared  of  God  that  they  should  feed  her  there. 

The  words,  roughly  carved,  were  traced  on  the  east  wall  of 
the  cabin  and  under  a  picture  of  Father  Damien. 

The  furniture  of  the  shack  was  made  by  Mary-Clare's  own 
hands.  A  long  table,  some  uneven  shelves  for  books  she 
most  loved,  a  chair  or  two  and  a  low  couch  over  which  was 
thrown  a  gay-patched  quilt.  Once  the  work  of  love  was 
completed,  Nature  reached  forth  with  offerings  of  lovely 
vines  and  mountain  laurel  and  screened  the  place  from  any 
chance  passer-by. 

A  hundred  feet  below  the  cabin  was  a  little  stream.  That 
marked  the  limit  of  even  Noreen's  territory  unless,  after  due 
ceremony,  she  was  permitted  to  advance  as  far  as  the  cabin 
door.  The  pretty  game  was  evolved  to  please  the  child 
and  secure  for  the  mother  a  privacy  she  might  not  have  got 
in  any  other  way. 

As  Mary-Clare  reached  the  "Place"  this  autumn  day,  she 
was  a  bit  breathless  and  stepped  lightly  as  one  does  who  ap- 
proaches a  shrine;  she  went  inside  and,  kneeling  by  the 
cracked  but  dustless  hearth,  lighted  a  fire;  then  she  took  a 
seat  by  the  rough  table,  clasped  her  hands  upon  it  and  lifted 
her  eyes  to  the  words  upon  the  opposite  wall. 

Sitting  so,  a  startling  change  came  over  the  young  face. 
It  was  like  a  letting  down  of  strong  defences.  The  smile  fled, 
the  head  bowed,  and  a  pitiful  look  of  appeal  settled  from  brow 
to  trembling  lips. 

Mary-Clare  had  come  to  a  sharp  turn  on  her  road  and,  as 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  35 

yet,  she  could  not  see  her  way!  She  had  drifted — she  could, 
with  Larry  away — but  now  he  was  coming  home! 

She  had  tried,  God  knew,  for  three  long  months  to  be  sure. 
She  must  be  sure,  she  was  like  that;  sure  that  she  felt  her 
way  to  be  the  right  way;  so  sure  that,  should  she  find  it  later 
the  wrong  way,  she  could  retrace  her  steps  without  remorse. 
It  was  the  believing,  at  the  start,  that  she  was  doing  right, 
that  mattered. 

Sitting  in  the  quiet  room  with  the  autumn  sunlight  coming 
through  the  clustering  vines  at  window  and  door  and  falling 
upon  her  in  dancing  patterns,  the  woman  waited  for  guidance. 
The  room  became  a  place  of  memory  and  vision. 

Help  would  come,  she  still  had  the  faith,  but  it  must  come 
at  once  for  her  husband  might  at  any  hour  return  from  one 
of  his  mysterious  business  trips  and  there  must  be  a  decision 
reached  before  she  met  him.  She  could  not  hope  to  make 
him  understand  her  nor  sympathize  with  her;  he  and  she, 
beyond  the  most  ordinary  themes,  spoke  different  languages. 
She  had  learned  that. 

She  must  take  her  stand  alone;  hold  it  alone;  but  the  stand 
must  seem  to  her  right  and  then  she  could  go  on.  Like  the 
flickering  sunbeams  playing  over  her,  the  past  came  touching 
her  memory  with  light  and  shade,  unconsciously  preparing 
her  for  her  decision.  She  was  not  thinking,  but  thought  was 
being  formed. 

The  waves  of  memory  swept  Mary-Clare  from  her  moor- 
ings. She  was  no  longer  the  harassed  woman  facing  her 
problem  in  the  clear  light  of  conviction;  but  the  child,  whose 
mistaken  ideals  of  love  and  loyalty  had  betrayed  her  so 
cruelly.  Why  had  she  who  early  had  been  taught  by  Doctor 
Rivers  to  "use  her  woman  brain,"  gone  so  utterly  astray? 

Why  had  she  married  Larry  when  she  never  loved  him; 
felt  him  to  be  a  stranger,  simply  because  he  had  interpreted 
the  words  of  a  dying  man  for  her? 

In  the  light  of  realization  the  errors  of  life  become  our  most 
deadly  accusers.  We  dare  not  make  others  pay  for  the  folly 
that  we  should  never  have  perpetrated.  Mary-Clare,  the 
woman,  had  paid  and  paid,  until  now  she  faced  bankruptcy; 


36  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

she  was  prepared  still  to  do  her  part  as  far  as  in  her  lay — but 
she  must  retrace  her  steps,  be  sure  and  then  go  on  as  best 
she  could. 

Always,  in  those  old  childish  days,  there  had  been  the 
grim  spectre  of  Larry's  mother.  Her  name  was  never  men- 
tioned but  to  the  imaginative,  sensitive  Mary-Clare,  she  be- 
came, for  that  very  reason,  a  clearly  defined  and  potent  in- 
fluence. She  was  responsible  for  the  doctor's  lonely  life  in 
King's  Forest;  for  Larry's  long  absences  from  home;  for  the 
lines  that  grew  between  the  old  doctor's  eyes  when  he  laid 
down  the  few  simple  laws  of  conduct  that  formed  the  iron 
code  of  life: 

Never  lie.  Never  break  a  promise.  Never  take  advantage 
for  selfish  gain.  Think  things  out  with  your  woman  brain, 
and  never  count  the  cost  if  you  know  it  is  right. 

Larry's  mother,  so  the  child  believed,  had  not  kept  the 
code — therefore,  Mary-Clare  must  the  more  strictly  adhere  to 
it  and  become  what  the  other  had  not!  And  how  desper- 
ately she  had  struggled  to  reach  her  ideal.  In  the  conflict, 
only  her  sunny  joyous  nature  had  saved  her  from  wreck. 
Naturally  direct  and  loyal,  much  of  what  might  have  oc- 
curred was  prevented.  Passionate  love  and  devout  belief 
in  the  old  doctor  eliminated  other  dangers. 

It  was  well  and  right  to  use  your  "woman  brain,"  but  when 
in  the  end  you  always  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  doc- 
tor's way  was  your  way,  life  was  simplified.  If  one  could  not 
fully  understand,  then  all  the  more  reason  for  relying  upon  a 
good  guide,  a  tested  friend;  but  above  all  other  considera- 
tions, once  the  foundation  was  secure  was  this:  she  must  make 
up  to  her  adored  doctor  and  Larry  for  what  that  unmen- 
tioned,  mysterious  woman  had  denied  them. 

It  had  all  seemed  so  simple,  when  one  did  not  know! 

That  was  it.  Breathing  hard,  Mary-Clare  came  back  to 
the  present.  She  could  not  know  until  she  had  lived,  and 
being  married  did  not  stop  life.  And  now,  Mary-Clare  could 
consider,  as  if  apart  from  herself,  from  the  girl  who  had  mar- 
ried Larry  because  he  had  caught  the  dying  request  of  the  old 
Doctor.  She  hatf  wanted  to  jlo  right  at  that  last  tragic  mp- 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  37 

ment.  She  had  done  it  with  the  false  understanding  of  reality 
and  found  out  the  truth — by  living.  It  had  seemed  to  her,  in 
her  ignorance,  the  only  way  to  relieve  the  suffering  of  the 
dying:  to  help  Larry  who  was  deprived  of  everything. 

Mary-Clare  must  not  desert,  as  the  unmentioned  woman 
had. 

But  life,  living — how  they  had  torn  the  blindness  from  her! 
How  she  had  paid  and  paid  until  that  awful  awakening  after 
the  birth  and  death  of  her  last  child,  three  months  before! 
She  had  tried  then  to  make  Larry  understand  before  he  went 
away,  but  she  could  not!  Larry  always  ascribed  her  moods, 
as  he  called  them,  to  her  "just  going  to  have  a  child,"  or 
"getting  over  having  one." 

He  had  gone  away  tolerant,  but  with  a  warning:  "A  man 
isn't  going  to  stand  too  much!" 

These  words  had  been  a  challenge.  There  could  be  no 
more  compromising.  Pay-day  had  come  for  her  and  Larry. 

But  the  letters! 

At  this  thought  Mary-Clare  sat  up  rigidly.  A  squirrel, 
that  had  paused  at  her  quiet  feet,  darted  affrightedly  across 
the  cabin  floor. 

The  letters!  The  letters  in  the  box  hid  on  the  shelf  of  the 
closet  in  the  upper  chamber.  Always  those  letters  had 
driven  her  back  from  the  light  which  experience  shed  upon 
her  to  the  darkness  of  ignorance. 

Larry  had  given  the  letters  to  her  at  the  time  when  she 
questioned,  after  the  doctor's  death,  Larry's  right  to  hold  her 
to  her  marriage  vows.  How  frightened  and  full  of  despair 
she  had  been.  She  had  felt  that  perhaps  Larry  had  not 
understood.  Why  had  the  doctor  never  told  her  of  his 
desire  for  her  and  Larry  to  marry?  Then  it  was  that  Larry 
had  gone  away  to  bring  proof.  He  had  never  meant  to  show 
it  to  her,  but  he  must  clear  himself  at  the  critical  moment. 

And  so  he  brought  the  letters.  Mary-Clare  knew  every 
word  of  them.  They  were  burned  into  her  soul:  they  had 
been  the  guides  on  the  hard  road  she  had  travelled.  The 
doctor  had  always  wanted  her  and  Larry  to  marry;  believed 
.that  they  would.  But  she  must  be  left  free;  no  word  musj 


38  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

be  spoken  until  she  was  old  enough  to  choose.  To  prove  his 
faith  and  love  in  his  adopted  child,  Rivers  had,  so  the  letters 
to  Larry  revealed,  left  his  all  to  her.  In  case  she  could  not 
marry  Larry,  he  confided  in  her  justice  to  share  with  him. 

The  last  dark  hour  had  broken  the  old  doctor's  self-control 
— he  had  voiced  what  heretofore  he  had  kept  secret.  The 
letters  stood  as  silent  proof  of  this.  And  then  the  old,  rigid 
code  asserted  its  influence.  A  promise  must  be  kept! 

And  so  the  payment  began,  but  it  was  not,  had  never 
been,  the  real  Mary-Clare  who  had  paid.  Something  had  re- 
treated during  the  bleak  years,  that  which  remained  fulfilled  the 
daily  tasks;  kept  its  own  council,  laughed  at  length,  and  knew 
a  great  joy  in  the  baby  Noreen,  seemed  a  proof  that  God  was 
still  with  her  while  she  held  to  what  appeared  to  be  right. 

And  then  the  last  child  came,  looked  at  her  with  its  deep 
accusing  eyes  and  died! 

In  that  hour,  or  so  it  seemed,  the  real  Mary-Clare  returned 
and  demanded  recognition.  There  was  to  be  no  more  com- 
promise; no  more  calling  things  by  false  names  and  striving  to 
believe  them  real.  There  was  but  one  safe  road:  truth. 

And  Larry  was  coming  home.  He  had  not  understood 
when  he  went  away:  he  would  not  understand  now.  Still, 
truth  must  be  faced. 

The  letters! 

Mary-Clare  now  leaned  on  the  table,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
wall  opposite.  The  roughly  carved  words  caught  and  held 
her  attention.  Gradually  it  came  to  her,  vaguely,  flicker^ 
ingly,  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp  darting  through  a  murky  night, 
that  if  life  meant  anything  it  meant  a  faith  in  what  was  true. 
She  must  not  demand  more  than  that;  a  sense  of  truth. 

As  a  little  child  may  look  across  the  familiar  environment 
of  its  nursery  and  contemplate  its  first  unaided  step,  so 
Mary-Clare  considered  her  small  world:  her  unthinking 
world  of  King's  Forest,  and  prepared  to  take  her  lonely 
course.  The  place  in  which  she  had  been  born  and  bred:  the 
love  and  friends  that  had  held  her  close  suddenly  became 
strange  to  her.  What  was  to  befall  her,  once  she  let  go  the 
conventions  that  upheld  her? 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  39 

Well,  that  was  not  for  her  to  ask.  There  was  the  letting 
go  and  then  the  first  unaided  step.  Nothing  must  hold  her 
back — not  even  those  letters  that  had  sustained  her!  In 
recognizing  her  big  problem  in  her  small  and  crude  world, 
Mary-Clare  had  no  thought  of  casting  aside  her  obligation 
or  duties — her  distress  was  founded  upon  a  fear  that  those 
blessed,  sacred  duties  would  have  none  of  her  because  she 
had  not  that  with  which  to  buy  favour. 

There  was  Noreen — she  was  Larry's,  too.  Through  the 
years  Mary-Clare  had  remembered  that  almost  fiercely  as 
she  combated  the  child's  aversion  to  her  father.  Suddenly, 
as  small  things  do  occur  at  strained  moments,  hurting  like  a 
cruel  blow,  a  scene  at  the  time  when  Noreen  was  but  four 
years  old,  rose  vividly  before  her.  Larry,  sensing  the  baby's 
hatred,  had  tried  to  force  an  outward  show  of  obedience  and 
affection.  He  had  commanded  Noreen  to  come  and  kiss 
him. 

Like  a  bird  under  the  spell  of  a  serpent,  Noreen  had  stood 
affrighted  and  silent.  The  command  was  repeated,  laugh- 
ingly, jeeringly,  but  under  it  Mary-Clare  had  recognized 
that  ring  of  brutality  that  occasionally  marked  Larry's  easy- 
going tones.  Then  Noreen  had  advanced  step  by  step,  her 
eyes  wide  and  alert. 

"Kiss  me!" 

"No!" 

The  words  had  been  explosive.  Then  Larry  had  caught 
the  child  roughly,  and  Noreen  had  struck  him! 

Maddened  and  keen  to  the  fact  that  he  had  been  brought 
to  bay,  Larry  had  struck  back,  and  for  days  the  mark  of  his 
hand  had  lain  across  the  delicate  cheek.  After  that,  when 
their  wills  clashed,  Noreen,  her  eyes  full  of  fear  and  hate, 
would  raise  her  hand  to  her  cheek — weighing  the  cost  of 
rebellion.  That  gesture  had  become  a  driving  force  in 
Mary-Clare's  life.  She  must  overcome  that  which  lay  like  a 
hideous  menace  between  Larry  and  Noreen!  She  was  ac- 
countable for  it;  out  of  her  loveless  existence  Noreen  had 
birth — she  was  a  living  evidence  of  the  wrong  done. 

Looking  back  now,  Mary-Clare  realized  that  on  the  day 


40  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

when  Larry  struck  Noreen  he  had  struck  the  scales  from  her 
eyes.  From  that  hour  she  had  bunglingly,  gropingly,  felt 
her  way  along.  The  only  fact  that  upheld  her  now  was  that 
she  knew  she  must  take  her  first  lonely  step,  even  if  all  her 
little  unknowing,  unthinking  world  dropped  from  her. 

Again  the  squirrel  darted  across  the  floor  and  Mary-Clare 
looked  after  it  lingeringly.  Even  the  little  wild  thing  was 
company  for  her  in  her  hard  hour.  Then  she  looked  up  at  the 
face  of  Father  Damien.  It  was  but  a  face — the  meaning  of 
what  had  gone  into  its  making  Mary-Clare  could  not  under- 
stand— but  it  brought  comfort  and  encouragement. 

The  reaction  had  set  in.  Worn-out  nerves  became  non- 
resistant;  they  ceased  to  ache.  Then  it  was  that  Noreen's 
shrill  voice  broke  the  calm: 

"Motherly,  Motherly,  he's  come:  he's  come  home!" 

Mary-Clare  rose  stiffly;  her  hands  were  spread  wide  as 
if  to  balance  her  on  that  dangerous,  adventurous  trail  that 
lay  between  her  past  and  the  hidden  future.  There  lay 
the  trail:  within  her  soul  was  a  sense  of  truth  and  she  had 
strength  and  courage  for  the  first  step.  That  was  all. 

"I'm  coming,  Noreen.  I'm  coming!"  And  Marv-Clare 
staggered  on. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MARY-CLARE  met  Noreen  at  the  brook,  smiling  and 
calm.  The  child  was  trembling  and  pale,  but  the 
touch  of  her  mother's  hand  reassured  her.  It  was 
like  waking  from  a  painful  dream  and  finding  everything 
safe  and  the  dream  gone. 

"I  was  just  coming  down  the  path  with  Jan-an,  Motherly,, 
when  I  saw  him  going  in  the  house." 

"Daddy,  dear?" 

"Yes,  Motherly,  Daddy.  He  left  a  bag  in  the  house; 
looked  all  around  and  then  came  out.  I  was  'fraid  he  was 
coming  to  you,  so  I  ran  and  ran,  but  Jan-an  said  she'd  stay 
and  fix  him  if  he  did." 

"Noreen!"     The  tone  was  stern  and  commanding. 

"Well,  Motherly,  Jan-an  said  that,  but  maybe  she  was 
just  funny." 

"Of  course.  Just  funny.  We  must  always  remember, 
Noreen,  that  poor  Jan-an  is  just  funny." 

"Yes,  Motherly." 

Things  were  reduced  to  normal  by  the  time  the  little  yellow 
house  was  reached.  Jan-an  was  there,  crouched  by  the  fire- 
place, upon  which  she  had  kindled  a  welcoming  fire  after 
making  sure  Larry  had  not  gone  up  the  secret  trail. 

Rivers  was  not  in  evidence,  though  a  weather-stained  bag, 
flung  hastily  on  the  floor,  was  proof  of  his  hurried  call.  He 
did  not  appear  all  day.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  at  the 
mines.  Failing  to  find  his  wife,  he  had  availed  himself  of  the 
opportunity  of  announcing  his  presence  to  his  good  friend 
Maclin,  and  getting  from  him  much  local  gossip,  and  what 
approval  Maclin  vouchsafed. 

All  day,  with  Jan-an's  assistance,  Mary-Clare  prepared 
for  the  creature  comforts  of  her  husband;  while  Noreen 

41 


42  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

made  nervous  trips  to  door  and  window.  At  night  Jan-an 
departed — she  seemed  glad  to  go  away,  but  not  sure  that 
she  ought  to  go;  Mary-Clare  laughed  her  into  good  humour. 

"I  jes  don't  like  the  feelings  I  have,"  the  girl  reiterated; 
"Fm  creepy." 

Mary-Clare  packed  a  bag  of  food  for  her  and  patted  her 
shoulder. 

"Come  to-morrow,"  she  said,  and  then,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  she  kissed  the  yearning,  vacant  face.  "You're 
going  to  the  Point,  Jan-an?"  she  asked,  and  the  girl  nodded. 

Noreen,  too,  had  to  be  petted  into  a  calmer  state — her 
old  aversion  to  her  father  sprang  into  renewed  life  with 
each  return  after  an  absence.  In  a  few  days  the  child 
would  grow  accustomed  to  his  presence  and  accept  him  with 
indifference,  at  least,  but  there  was  always  this  struggle. 

Mary-Clare  herself  wondered  where  Larry  was;  why  he 
delayed,  once  having  come  back  to  the  Forest;  but  she  kept 
to  her  tasks  of  preparation  and  reassuring  Noreen,  and  so 
the  day  passed. 

At  eight  o'clock,  having  eaten  supper  and  undressed  the 
child,  she  sat  in  the  deep  wooden  rocker  with  Noreen  in  her 
arms.  There  was  always  one  story  that  had  power  to  claim 
attention  when  all  others  failed,  and  Mary-Clare  resorted  to 
it  now.  Swaying  back  and  forth  she  told  the  story  of  the 
haunt-wind. 

"It  was  a  wonderful  wind,  Noreen,  quite  magical.  It 
came  from  between  the  south  and  the  east — a  wild  little 
wind  that  ran  away  and  did  things  on  its  own  account;  but 
it  was  a  good  little  wind  for  all  that  foolish  people  saitl  about 
it.  It  took  hold  of  the  bell  rope  in  the  belfry,  and  swung  out 
and  out;  it  swung  far,  and  then  it  dropped  and  fluttered  about 
quite  dizzily." 

"Touching  Jan-an?"  Noreen  suggested  sleepily. 

"Jan-an,  of  course.  Making  her  beautiful  and  laughing. 
Waking  her  from  her  sad  dream,  poor  Jan-an,  and  giving 
her  strength  to  do  really  splendid  things." 

"I  love  the  wild  wind!"  Noreen  pressed  closer.  "I'm 
not  afraid  of  it.  And  it  found  Aunt  Polly  and  Uncle  Peter?" 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  43 

"To  be  sure.  It  made  Aunt  Polly  seem  as  grand  and  big 
as  she  really  is — only  blind  folks  cannot  see — and  it  made  all 
the  blind  folks  see  her  for  a  minute.  And  it  made  Uncle 
Peter — no;  it  left  Uncle  Peter  as  he  is!" 

"  I  like  that" — drowsily — "  and  it  made  us  see  the  man  that 
went  to  the  inn?"  Noreen  lifted  her  head,  suddenly  alert. 

"What  made  you  think  of  him,  Noreen?"  Mary-Clare 
stopped  swaying  to  and  fro. 

"I  don't  know,  Motherly.  Only  it  was  funny  how  he 
just  came  and  then  the  haunt-wind  came  and  Jan-an  says 
she  thinks  he  isn't.  Really  we  only  think  we  see  him." 

"Well,  perhaps  that's  true,  childie.  He's  something  good, 
I  hope.  Now  shut  your  eyes  like  a  dearie,  and  Mother  will 
rock  and  sing." 

Mary-Clare  fixed  her  eyes  on  her  child's  face,  but  she  was 
seeing  another.  The  face  of  a  man  whose  glance  had  held 
hers  for  a  strange  moment.  She  had  been  conscious,  since, 
of  this  man's  presence;  his  name  was  familiar — she  could  not 
forget  him,  though  there  was  no  reason  for  her  to  remember 
him  except  that  he  was  new;  a  something  different  in  her  dull 
days. 

But  Noreen,  eyes  obediently  closed,  was  pleading  in  the 
strange,  foolish  jargon  of  her  rare  moments  of  relaxation: 

"You  lit  and  lock,  Motherly,  and  I'll  luck  my  lum,  just 
for  to-night,  and  lall  aleep." 

"All  right,  beloved;  you  may,  just  for  to-night,  suck  the 
little  thumb,  and  fall  asleep  while  Mother  rocks." 

After  a  few  moments  more  Noreen  was  asleep  and  Mary- 
Clare  carried  her  to  an  inner  room  and  put  her  on  her  bed. 
She  paused  to  look  at  the  small  sleeping  face;  she  noted  the 
baby  outlines  that  always  were  so  strongly  marked  when 
Noreen  was  unconscious;  it  hurt  the  mother  to  think  how 
they  hardened  when  the  child  awakened.  The  realization 
of  this  struck  Mary-Clare  anew  and  reinforced  her  to  her 
purpose,  for1  she  knew  her  hour  was  at  hand. 

A  week  before  she  had  dismantled  the  room  in  which  she 
now  stood.  It  had  once  been  Doctor  Rivers's  chamber; 
later  it  had  been  hers — and  Larry's.  The  old  furniture  was 


44  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

now  in  the  large  upper  room,  only  bare  necessities  were  left 
here. 

Mary-Clare  looked  about  and  her  face  lost  its  smile;  her 
head  lowered — it  was  not  easy,  the  task  she  had  set  for  her- 
self, and  after  Larry's  visit  to  the  mines  it  would  be  harder. 
She  had  hoped  to  see  Larry  first,  for  Maclin  had  a  subtle 
power  over  him.  Without  ever  referring  to  her,  and  she 
was  sure  he  did  not  in  an  intimate  sense,  he  always  put  Larry 
in  an  antagonistic  frame  of  mind  toward  her.  Well,  it  was 
too  late  now  to  avert  Maclin's  influence — she  must  do  the 
best  she  could.  She  went  back  to  the  fire  and  sat  down  and 
waited. 

It  was  after  ten  o'clock  when  Larry  came  noisily  in.  Riv- 
ers took  his  colour  from  his  associates  and  their  attitude 
toward  him.  He  was  a  bit  hilarious  now,  for  Maclin  had  been 
glad  to  see  him;  had  approved  of  the  results  of  his  mission — 
though  as  for  that  Larry  had  had  little  to  do,  for  he  had  only 
delivered,  to  certain  men,  some  private  papers  and  had  re- 
ceived others  in  return;  had  been  conscious  that  non-essen- 
tials had  been  talked  over  with  him,  but  as  that  was  part 
of  the  business  of  big  inventions,  he  did  not  resent  it.  Mac- 
lin had  paid  him  better  than  he  had  expected  to  be  paid, 
shared  a  good  dinner  with  him  and  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  now 
Rivers  felt  important  and  aggressive.  Wine's  first  effect 
upon  him  was  to  make  him  genial. 

He  had  meant  to  resent  Mary-Clare's  absence  on  his  ar- 
rival, but  he  had  forgotten  all  about  that.  He  meant  now  to 
be  very  generous  with  her  and  let  bygones  be  bygones — he 
had  long  since  forgotten  the  words  spoken  just  before  he  left 
for  his  trip.  Words  due,  of  course,  to  Mary-Clare  just  hav- 
ing had  a  baby.  Almost  Larry  had  forgotten  that  the  baby 
had  been  born  and  had  died. 

He  strode  across  the  room.  He  was  tall,  lithe,  and  good- 
looking,  but  his  face  betokened  weakness.  All  the  features 
that  had  promised  strength  and  power  seemed,  somehow, 
to  have  missed  fulfilment. 

Mary-Clare  tried  to  respond;  tried  to  do  her  full  part- 
it  would  all  help  so  much,  if  she  only  coufd.  But  this  mood 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  45 

of  Larry's  was  fraught  with  danger — did  she  not  know?  Suc- 
cess did  not  make  him  understanding  and  considerate;  it 
made  him  boyishly  dominant  and  demanding. 

"Well, old  girl" — Rivers  had  slammed  the  door  after  him — 
"sitting  up  for  me,  eh?  Sorry;  but  when  I  didn't  find  you 
here,  I  had  to  get  over  and  see  Maclin.  Devilish  important, 
big  pull  I've  made  this  time.  We'll  have  a  spree — go  to  the 
city,  if  you  like — have  a  real  bat." 

Mary-Clare  did  not  have  time  to  move  or  speak;  Larry  was 
crushing  her  against  him  and  kissing  her  face — not  as  a  man 
kisses  a  woman  he  loves,  but  as  he  might  kiss  any  woman. 
The  silence  and  rigidity  of  Mary-Clare  presently  made  them- 
selves felt.  Larry  pushed  her  away  almost  angrily. 

"Mad,  eh?"  he  asked  with  a  suggestion  of  triumph  in  his 
voice.  "Acting  up  because  I  ran  off  to  Maclin?  Well,  I  had 
to  see  him.  I  tried  to  get  home  sooner,  but  you  know  how 
Maclin  is  when  he  gets  talking." 

How  long  Larry  would  have  kept  on  it  would  have  been 
hard  to  tell,  but  he  suddenly  looked  full  at  Mary-Clare  and — 
stopped! 

The  expression  on  the  face  confronting  his  was  puzzling: 
it  looked  amused,  not  angry.  Now  there  is  one  thing  a  man 
of  Larry's  type  cannot  bear  with  equanimity  and  that  is  to 
have  his  high  moments  dashed.  He  saw  that  he  was  not 
impressing  Mary-Clare;  he  saw  that  he  was  mistaking  her 
attitude  of  mind  concerning  his  treatment  of  her — in  short, 
she  did  not  care! 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  he  asked. 

"  I'm  not  laughing,  Larry." 

"What  are  you  smiling  at?" 

"My  smile  is  my  own,  Larry;  when  I  laugh  it's  different." 

"Trying  to  be  smart,  eh?  I  should  think  when  your 
husband's  been  away  months  and  has  just  got  back,  you'd 
meet  him  with  something  besides  a  grin." 

There  was  some  justice  in  this  and  Mary-Clare  said  slowly: 
"I'm  sorry,  Larry.  I  really  was  only  thinking." 

Now  that  she  was  face  to  face  with  her  big  moment,  Mary- 
Clare  realized  anew  how  difficult  her  task  was.  Often,  in 


46  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

the  past,  thinking  of  Larry  when  he  was  not  with  her,  it  had 
seemed  possible  to  reason  with  him;  to  bring  truth  to  him  and 
implore  his  help.  Always  she  had  striven  to  cling  to  her  image 
of  Larry,  but  never  to  the  real  man.  The  man  she  had  con- 
structed with  Larry  off  the  scene  was  quite  another  creature 
from  Larry  in  the  flesh.  This  knowledge  was  humiliating 
now  in  the  blazing  light  of  reality  grimly  faced  and  it  taxed 
all  of  Mary-Clare's  courage.  She  was  smiling  sadly,  smiling 
at  her  own  inability  in  the  past  to  deal  with  facts. 

Larry  was  brought  to  bay.  He  was  disappointed,  angry, 
and  outraged-  He  was  not  a  man  to  reflect  upon  causes; 
results,  and  very  present  ones,  were  all  that  concerned  him. 
But  he  did,  now,  hark  back  to  the  scene  soon  after  the  birth 
and  death  of  the  last  child.  Such  states  of  mind  didn't 
last  for  ever,  and  there  was  no  baby  coming  at  the  moment. 
He  could  not  make  things  out. 

"See  here,"  he  said  rather  gropingly,  "you  are  not  holding 
a  grouch,  are  you?" 

"No,  Larry." 

"What  then?" 

For  a  moment  Mary-Clare  shrank.  She  weakly  wanted  to 
put  off  the  big  moment;  dared  not  face  it. 

"It's  late,  Larry.  You  are  tired."  She  got  that  far  when 
sheafFrightedly  remembered  the  bedroom  upstairs  and  paused. 
She  had  arranged  it  for  Larry — there  must  be  an  explana- 
tion of  that. 

"Late  be  hanged!"  Larry  stretched  his  legs  out  and 
plunged  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "I'm  going  to  get  at  the 
bottom  of  this  to-night.  You  understand  ?" 

"All  right,  Larry."  Mary-Clare  sank  back  in  her  chair- 
she  had  fallen  on  her  adventurous  way;  she  had  no  words 
with  which  to  convey  her  burning  thoughts.  Already  she  had 
got  so  far  from  the  man  who  had  filled  such  a  false  position  in 
her  life  that  he  seemed  a  stranger.  To  tell  him  that  she  did 
not  love  him,  had  never  loved  him,  was  all  but  impossible. 
Of  course  he  could  not  be  expected  to  comprehend.  The 
situation  became  terrifying. 

"You've  never  been  the  same  since  the  last  baby  came." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  47 

Larry  was  speaking  in  an  injured,  harsh  tone.  "I've  put  up 
with  a  good  deal,  Mary-Clare;  not  many  men  would  be  so 
patient.  The  trouble  with  you,  my  girl,  is  this,  you  get 
your  ideas  from  books.  That  mightn't  matter  if  you  had 
horse  sense  and  knew  when  to  slam  the  covers  on  the  rot. 
But  you  try  to  live  'em  and  then  the  devil  is  to  pay.  Dad 
spoiled  you.  He  let  you  run  away  with  yourself.  But 
the  time's  come " 

The  long  speech  in  the  face  of  Mary-Clare's  wondering, 
amazed  eyes,  brought  Larry  to  a  panting  pause. 

"What  you  got  a  husband  for,  anyway,  that's  what  I  am 
asking  you?" 

Mary-Clare's  hard-won  philosophy  of  life  stood  her  in  poor 
stead  now.  She  felt  an  insane  desire  to  give  way  and  laugh. 
It  was  a  maddening  thing  to  contemplate,  but  she  seemed 
to  see  things  so  cruelly  real  and  Larry  seemed  shouting  to  her 
from  a  distance  that  she  could  never  retrace.  For  a  moment 
he  seemed  to  be  physically  out  of  sight — she  only  heard  his 
words. 

"By  God!  Mary-Clare,  what's  up?  Have  you  counted 
the  cost  of  carrying  on  as  you  are  doing?  What  am  I  up 
against?" 

"Yes,  Larry,  I've  counted  the  cost  to  me  and  Noreen  and 
you.  I'm  afraid  this  is  what  we  are  all  up  against." 

"Well,  what's  the  sum  total?"  Larry  leaned  back  more 
comfortably;  he  felt  that  Mary-Clare,  once  she  began  to 
talk,  would  say  a  good  deal.  She  would  talk  like  one  of  her 
books.  He  need  not  pay  much  heed  and  when  she  got  out  of 
breath  he'd  round  her  up.  His  interview  with  Maclin  had 
not  been  all  business;  the  gossip,  interjected,  was  taking  ugly 
and  definite  form  now.  Maclin  had  mentioned  the  man  at 
the  inn.  Quite  incidentally,  of  course,  but  repeatedly. 

"You  see,  Larry,  I've  got  to  tell  you  how  it  is,  in  my  own 
way,"  Mary-Clare  was  speaking.  "I  know  my  way  makes 
you  angry,  but  please  be  patient,  for  if  I  tried  any  other  way 
it  would  hurt  more." 

"Fire  away!"  Larry  nobly  suppressed  a  yawn.  Had 
Mary-Clare  said  simply,  "  I  don't  love  you  any  more,"  Larry 


48  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

would  have  got  up  from  the  blow  and  been  able  to  handle  the 
matter,  but  she  proceeded  after  a  fashion  that  utterly  con- 
fused him  and,  instead  of  clearing  the  situation,  managed  to 
create  a  most  unlooked-for  result. 

"It's  like  this,  Larry:  I  suppose  life  is  a  muddle  for  every- 
one and  we  all  do  have  to  learn  as  we  go  on — nothing  can 
keep  us  from  that,  not  even  marriage,  can  it?" 

No  reply  came  to  this. 

"It's  like  light  coming  in  spots,  and  then  those  spots  can 
never  be  really  dark  again  although  all  the  rest  may  be.  You 
think  of  those  spots  as  bright  and  sure  when  all  else  is — is 
lost.  That  is  the  way  it  has  been  with  me." 

"Gee!"  Larry  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Larry,  you  must  try  to  understand!"  Mary-Clare  was 
growing  desperate. 

"Then,  try  to  talk  American." 

"I  am,  Larry.  My  American.  That's  the  trouble — there 
is  more  than  one  kind,  you  know.  Larry,  it  was  all  wrong, 
my  marrying  you  even  for  dear  Dad's  sake.  If  he  had  been 
well  and  we  could  have  talked  it  over,  he  would  have  under- 
stood. I  should  have  understood  for  him  that  last  night. 
Even  the  letters  should  not  have  mattered,  they  must  not 
matter  now!" 

This,  at  least,  was  comprehensible. 

"Well,  you  did  marry  me,  didn't  you?"  Larry  flung  out. 
"You're  my  wife,  aren't  you?"  Correcting  mistakes  was 
not  in  Larry's  plan  of  life. 

"I — why,  yes,  I  am,  Larry,  but  a  wife  means  more  than  one 
thing,  doesn't  it?"  This  came  hopelessly. 

"Not  to  me.  What's  your  idea?"  Larry  was  relieved  at 
having  the  conversation  run  along  lines  that  he  could  handle 
with  some  degree  of  common  sense. 

"Well,  Larry,  marriage  means  a  good  many  things  to  me. 
It  means  being  kind  and  making  a  good  home — a  real  home, 
not  just  a  place  to  come  to.  It  means  standing  by  each  other, 
even  if  you  can't  have  everything!" 

Just  for  one  moment  Larry  was  inclined  to  end  this  shilly- 
shallying by  brute  determination.  He  was  that  type  of  man. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  49 

What  did  not  come  within  the  zone  of  his  own  experience, 
did  not  exist  for  him  except  as  obstacles  to  brush  aside. 

It  was  a  damned  bad  time,  he  thought,  for  Mary-Clare  to 
act  up  her  book  stuff.  A  man,  home  after  a  three  months' 
absence,  tired  and  worn  out,  could  not  be  expected,  at  close 
upon  midnight,  to  enjoy  this  outrageous  nonsense  that  had 
been  sprung  upon  him. 

He  must  put  an  end  to  it  at  once.  He  discarded  the  cave 
method.  Of  course  that  impulse  was  purely  primitive.  It 
might  simplify  the  whole  situation  but  he  discarded  it. 
Mary-Clare's  outbursts  were  like  Noreen's  "dressing  up" — 
and  bore  about  the  same  relation  in  Larry's  mind. 

"See  here,"  he  said  suddenly,  fixing  his  eyes  on  Mary- 
Clare — when  Larry  asserted  himself  he  always  glared — "just 
what  in  thunder  do  you  mean?" 

The  simplicity  of  the  question  demanded  a  crude  reply. 

"I'm  not  going  to  have  any  more  children."  Out  of  the 
maze  of  complicated  ideals  and  gropings  this  question  and 
answer  emerged,  devastating  everything  in  their  path. 
They  meant  one,  and  only  one,  thing  to  Larry  Rivers. 

There  were  some  things  that  could  illume  his  dark  stretches 
and  level  Mary-Clare's  vague  Teachings  to  a  common  level. 
Both  Larry  and  Mary-Clare  were  conscious  now  of  being 
face  to  face  with  a  grave  human  experience.  They  stood  re- 
vealed, man  and  woman.  The  big  significant  things  in  life 
are  startlingly  simple. 

The  man  attacked  the  grim  spectre  with  conventional  and 
brutal  weapons;  the  woman  backed  away  with  a  dogged  look 
growing  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh!  you  aren't,  eh?"  Larry  spoke  slowly.  "You've 
decided,  have  you?" 

"I  know  what  children  mean  to  you,  Larry;  I  know  what 
you  mean  by — love — yes:  I've  decided!" 

"You  wedged  your  way  into  my  father's  good  graces  and 
crowded  me  out;  you  had  enough  decency,  when  you  knew 
his  wishes,  to  carry  them  out  as  long  as  you  cared  to,  and 
now  you're  going  to  end  the  job  in  your  own  way,  eh  ? 

"Name  the  one  particular  way  in  which  you're  not  going 


50  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

to  break  your  vows,"  Larry  asked,  and  sneered.  "What's 
your  nice  little  plan?"  He  got  up  and  walked  about.  "I 
suppose  you  have  cut  and  dried  some  little  compromise." 

"Oh!  Larry,  I  wish  you  could  be  a  little  kind;  a  little 
understanding." 

"Wish  I  could  think  as  you  think;  that's  what  you  mean. 
Well,  by  God,  I'm  a  man  and  your  husband  and  I'm  going 
to  stand  on  my  rights.  You  can't  make  a  silly  ass  of  me  as 
you  did  of  my  father.  Fathers  and  husbands  are  a  shade 
different.  Come,  now,  out  with  your  plan." 

"I  will  not  have  any  more  children!  I'll  do  everything 
I  can,  Larry;  make  the  home  a  real  home.  Noreen  and  I  will 
love  you.  We'll  try  to  find  some  things  we  all  want  to  do 
together;  you  and  I  can  sort  of  plan  for  Noreen  and  there 
are  all  kinds  of  things  to  do  around  the  Forest,  Larry.  Really, 
you  and  I  ought  to — ought  to  carry  out  your  father's  work. 
We  could!  There  are  other  things  in  marriage,  Larry,  but 
just — the  one."  Breathlessly  Mary-Clare  came  to  a  pause, 
but  Larry's  amused  look  drove  her  on.  "I'm  not  the  kind  of 
a  woman,  Larry,  that  can  live  a  lie!" 

A  tone  of  horror  shook  Mary-Clare's  voice;  she  choked  and 
Larry  came  closer,  his  lips  were  smiling. 

"What  in  thunder!"  he  muttered.  Then:  "You  plan  to 
have  us  live  on  here  in  this  house;  you  and  I,  a  man  and 

woman — and r!"  Larry  stopped  short,  then  laughed. 

"A  hell  of  a  home  that  would  be,  all  right!" 

Mary-Clare  gazed  dully  at  him. 

"Well,  then,"  she  whispered,  and  her  lips  grew  deadly  white, 
"  I  do  not  know  what  to  do." 

"Do?  You'll  forget  it!"  thundered  Larry.  "And  pretty 
damned  quick,  too!" 

But  Mary-Clare  did  not  answer.  There  was  nothing  more 
to  say.  She  was  thinking  of  the  birth-night  and  death-night 
of  her  last  child. 

On  and  on  the  burning  thoughts  rushed  in  Mary-Clare's 
brain  while  she  sat  near  Larry  without  seeing  him.  As  surely 
as  if  death  had  taken  him,  he,  the  husband,  the  father  of 
Noreen,  had  gone  from  her  life.  It  did  not  seem  now  as  if 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  51 

anything  she  had  said,  or  done,  had  had  anything  to  do  with 
it.  It  was  like  an  accident  that  had  overtaken  them,  killing 
Larry  and  leaving  her  to  readjust  her  life  alone. 

"Why  don't  you  answer?"  Larry  laid  a  hand  upon  Mary- 
Clare's  shoulder.  "Getting  sleepy?  Come  on,  then,  we'll 
have  this  out  to-morrow."  He  looked  toward  the  door 
behind  which  stood  Noreen's  cot  and  that  other  one  beside  it. 

"I've  fixed  the  room  upstairs  for  you,  Larry." 

The  simple  statement  had  power  to  accomplish  all  that 
was  left  to  be  done.  There  was  a  finality  about  it,  and  the 
look  on  Mary-Clare's  face,  that  convinced  Larry  he  had 
come  to  the  point  of  conquest  or  defeat. 

"The  devil  you  have!"  was  what  he  said  to  gain  time. 

For  a  moment  he  again  contemplated  force — the  primitive 
male  always  hesitates  to  compromise  where  his  codes  are 
threatened.  There  was  a  dangerous  gleam  in  his  eyes;  a 
ferocious  curl  of  his  lips — it  would  be  such  a  simple  matter 
and  it  would  end  for  ever  the  nonsense  that  he  could  not 
tolerate. 

Mary-Clare  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  She  was  so  abso- 
lutely unafraid  that  she  quelled  Larry's  brute  instinct  and 
aroused  in  him  a  dread  of  the  unknown.  What  would  Mary- 
Clare  do  in  the  last  struggle?  Larry  was  not  prepared  to 
take  what  he  recognized  as  a  desperate  chance.  The  familiar 
and  obvious  were  deep-rooted  in  his  nature — if,  in  the  end, 
he  lost  with  this  calm,  cool  woman  whom  he  could  not 
frighten,  where  could  he  turn  for  certain  things  to  which  his 
weakness — or  was  it  his  strength — clung? 

A  place  to  come  to;  someone  peculiarly  his  own;  his  with- 
out effort  to  be  worthy  of.  Larry  resorted  to  new  tactics 
with  Mary-Clare  at  this  critical  moment.  The  smile  faded 
from  his  sneering  lips;  he  leaned  forward  and  the  manner  that 
made  him  valuable  to  Maclin  fell  upon  him  like  a  disguise. 
So  startling  was  the  change,  that  Mary-Clare  looked  at  him 
in  surprise. 

"Mary-Clare,  you've  got  me  guessing" — there  was  almost 
surrender  in  the  tone — "a  woman  like  you  doesn't  take  the 
stand  you  have  without  reason.  I  know  that.  Naturally, 


52  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

I  was  upset,  I  spoke  too  quick.  Tell  me  now  in  your  own 
way.  I'll  try  to  understand." 

Mary-Clare  was  taken  off  guard.  Her  desire  and  sore  need 
rushed  past  caution  and  carried  her  to  Larry. 

She,  too,  leaned  forward,  and  her  lovely  eyes  were  shining. 
"Oh!  I  hoped  you  would  try,  Larry,"  she  said.  "I  know 
I'm  trying  and  put  things  in  a  way  that  you  resent,  but  I 
have  a  great,  a  true  reason,  if  I  could  only  make  you  see  it." 

"Now,  you're  talking  sense,  Mary-Clare,"  Larry  spoke 
boyishly.  "Just  over-tired,  I  guess  you  were;  seeing  things 
in  the  dark.  Men  know  the  world  better  than  women; 
that's  why  some  things  are  as  they  are.  I'm  not  going  to 
press  you,  Mary-Clare,  I'm  going  to  try  and  help  you.  You 
are  my  wife,  aren't  you  ? " 

"Yes,  oh!  yes,  Larry." 

"Well,  I'm  a  man  and  you're  a  woman." 

"Yes,  that's  so,  Larry." 

Step  by  step,  ridiculous  as  it  might  seem,  Mary-Clare 
meant,  even  now,  to  keep  as  close  to  Larry  as  she  could. 
He  misunderstood;  he  thought  he  was  winning  against  her 
folly. 

"Marriage  was  meant  for  one  thing  between  man  and 
woman!" 

This  came  out  triumphantly.  Then  Mary-Clare  threw 
back  her  head  and  spiritually  retreated  to  her  vantage  of 
safety. 

"No,  it  wasn't,"  she  said,  taking  to  her  own  hard-won 
trail  desperately.  "No,  it  wasn't!  I  cannot  accept  that 
Larry — why,  I  have  seen  where  such  reasoning  would  lead. 
I  saw  the  night  our  last  baby  came — and  went.  I'd  grow  old 
and  broken — you'd  hate  me;  there  would  be  children — many 
of  them,  poor,  sad  little  things — looking  at  me  with  dreadful 
eyes,  accusing  me.  If  marriage  means  only  one  thing — it 
means  that  to  me  and  you,  and  no  woman  has  the  right  to — 
to  become  like  that." 

"Wanting  to  defy  the  laws  of  God,  eh?"  Larry  grew  vir- 
tuous. "  We  all  grow  old,  don't  we ?  Men  work  for  women; 
women  do  their  share.  Children  are  natural,  ain't  they? 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  53 

What's  the  institution  of  marriage  for,  anyway?"  And  now 
Larry's  mouth  was  again  hardening. 

"Larry,  oh!  Larry,  please  don't  make  me  laugh!  If  I 
should  laugh  there  would  never  be  any  hope  of  our  getting 
together." 

For  some  reason  this  almost  hysterical  appeal  roused  the 
worst  in  Larry.  The  things  Maclin  had  told  him  that  day 
again  took  fire  and  spread  where  Maclin  could  never  have 
dreamed  of  their  spreading.  The  liquor  was  losing  its  sus- 
taining effect — it  was  leaving  Larry  to  flounder  in  his  weak 
will,  and  he  abandoned  his  futile  tactics. 

"Who's  that  man  at  the  inn?"  he  asked. 

The  suddenness  of  the  question,  its  irrelevancy,  made 
Mary-Clare  start.  For  a  moment  the  words  meant  abso- 
lutely nothing  to  her  and  then  because  she  was  bared,  ner- 
vously, to  every  attack,  she  flushed — recalling  with  absurd 
clearness  Northrup's  look  and  tone. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said. 

"That's  a  lie.  How  long  has  he  been  here,  snooping 
around  ? " 

"I  haven't  the  slightest  idea,  Larry."  This  was  not  true, 
and  Larry  caught  the  quiver  in  the  tones. 

Again  he  got  up  and  became  the  masterful  male;  the  in- 
jured husband;  the  protector  of  his  home.  There  were  still 
tactics  to  be  tested. 

"See  here,  Mary-Clare,  I've  caught  on.  You  never  cared 
for  me.  You  married  me  from  what  you  called  duty;  your 
sense  of  decency  held  until  your  own  comfort  and  pleasure 
got  in  between — then  you  were  ready  to  fling  me  off  like  an 
old  mit  and  term  it  by  high-sounding  names.  Now  comes 
along  this  stranger,  from  God  knows  where,  looking  about 
for  the  devil  knows  what — and  taking  what  lies  about  in 
order  to  pass  the  time.  I  haven't  lived  in  the  world  for  noth- 
ing, Mary-Clare.  Now  lay  this  along  with  the  other  woman- 
thoughts  you're  so  fond  of.  I'm  going  upstairs,  for  I'm  tired 
and  all-fired  disgusted,  but  remember,  what  I  can't  hold, 
no  other  man  is  going  to  get,  not  even  for  a  little  time  while 
he  hangs  about.  Folks  are  going  to  see  just  what  is  going  on, 


54  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

believe  me!  I'm  going  to  leave  all  the  doors  and  windows 
open.  I'm  going  to  give  you  your  head,  but  I'll  keep  hold  of 
the  reins." 

And  then,  because  it  was  all  so  hideously  wrong  and  twisted 
and  comical,  Mary-Clare  laughed!  She  laughed  noiselessly, 
until  the  tears  dimmed  her  eyes.  Larry  watched  her  un- 
easily. 

"Oh,  Larry,"  she  managed  her  voice  at  last,  "I  never  knew 
that  anything  so  dreadfully  wrong  could  be  made  of  nothing. 
You've  created  a  terrible  something,  and  I  wonder  if  you 
know  it?" 

"That's  enough!"  Larry  strode  toward  the  stairway. 
"Your  husband's  no  fool,  my  girl,  and  the  cheap,  little,  old 
tricks  are  plain  enough  to  him." 

Mary-Clare  watched  her  husband  pass  from  view;  heard 
him  tramp  heavily  in  the  room  above.  She  sat  by  the  dead 
fire  and  thought  of  him  as  she  first  knew  him — knew  him? 
Then  her  eyes  widened.  She  had  never  known  him;  she  had 
taken  him  as  she  had  taken  all  that  her  doctor  had  left  to  her, 
and  she  had  failed;  failed  because  she  had  not  thought  her 
woman's  thought  until  it  was  too  late. 

After  all  her  high  aims  and  earnest  endeavour  to  meet  this 
critical  moment  in  her  life  Mary-Clare  acknowledged,  as 
she  sat  by  the  ash-strewn  hearth,  that  it  had  degenerated 
into  a  cheap  and  almost  comic  farce.  To  her  narrow  vision 
her  problem  seemed  never  to  have  been  confronted  before; 
her  world  of  the  Forest  would  have  no  sympathy  for  it,  or 
her;  Larry  had  reduced  it  to  the  ugliest  aspect,  and  by  so 
doing  had  turned  her  thoughts  where  they  might  never  have 
turned  and  upon  the  stranger  who  might  always  have  re- 
mained a  stranger. 

Alone  in  the  deadly  quiet  room,  the  girl  of  Mary-Clare 
passed  from  sight  and  the  woman  was  supreme;  a  little  hard, 
in  order  to  combat  the  future:  quickened  to  a  futile  sense  of 
injustice,  but  young  enough,  even  at  that  moment,  to  demand 
of  life  something  vital;  something  better  than  the  cruel  thing 
that  might  evolve  unless  she  bore  herself  courageously. 

Unconsciously  she  was  planning  her  course.     She  would 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  55 

go  her  way  with  her  old  smile,  her  old  outward  bearing.  A 
promise  was  a  promise — she  would  never  forget  that,  and 
as  far  as  she  could  pay  with  that  which  was  hers  to  give,  she 
would  pay,  but  outside  of  that  she  would  not  let  life  cheat 
her. 

Bending  toward  the  dead  fire  on  the  hearth,  Mary-Clare 
made  her  silent  covenant. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  storm  had  kept  Northrup  indoors  for  many  hours 
each  day,  but  he  had  put  those  hours  to  good  use. 
He  outlined   his  plot;  read   and  worked.     He  felt 
that  he  was  becoming  part  of  the  quiet  life  of  the  inn  and  the 
Forest,  but  more  and  more  he  was  becoming  an  object  of  in- 
tense but  unspoken  interest. 

"He's  writing  a  book!"  Aunt  Polly  confided  to  Peter. 
"  But  he  doesn't  want  anything  said  about  it." 

"He  needn't  get  scared.  I  like  him  too  well  to  let  on  and 
I  reckon  one  thing's  as  good  as  another*  to  tell  us.  I  lay  my 
last  dollar,  Polly,  on  this:  he's  after  Maclin;  not  with  him. 
I'm  thinking  the  Forest  will  get  a  shake-up  some  day  and 
I'm  willing  to  bide  my  time.  Writing  a  book!  Him,  a  full- 
blooded  young  feller,  writing  a  book.  Gosh!  Why  don't 
he  take  to  knitting?" 

Northrup  also  sent  a  letter  to  Manly.  He  realized  that 
he  might  set  his  conscience  at  rest  by  keeping  his  end  of  the 
line  open,  but  he  wanted  to  have  one  Steady  hand,  at  least, 
at  the  other  end. 

"Until  further  notice,"  he  wrote  to  Manly,  "I'm  here,  and 
let  it  go  at  that.  Should  there  be  any  need,  even  the  slight- 
est, get  in  touch  with  me.  As  for  the  rest,  I've  found  myself, 
Manly.  I'm  getting  acquainted,  and  working  like  the  devil." 

Manly  read  the  letter,  grinned,  and  put  it  in  a  box  marked 
"Confidential,  but  unimportant." 

Then  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  before  he  relegated 
Northrup  to  "unimportant,"  gave  him  two  or  three  thoughts. 

"The  writing  bug  has  got  him,  root  and  branch.  He's 
burrowed  in  his  hole  and  wants  the  earth  to  tumble  in  over 
him.  Talk  about  letting  sleeping  dogs  lie.  Lord!  they're 
nothing  to  the  animals  of  Northrup's  type.  And  some  darn 

56 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  57 

fools" — Manly  was  thinking  of  Kathryn — "go  nosing  around 
and  yapping  at  the  creatures'  heels  and  feel  hurt  when  they 
turn  and  snap." 

And  Northrup,  in  his  quiet  room  at  the  inn,  slept  at  night 
like  a  tired  boy  and  dreamed.  Now  when  Northrup  began 
to  dream,  he  was  always  on  the  lookout.  A  few  skirmishing, 
nonsensical  dreams  marked  a  state  of  mind  peculiarly  asso- 
ciated with  his  best  working  mood.  They  caught  and  held 
his  attention;  they  were  like  signals  of  the  real  thing.  The 
Real  Thing  was  a  certain  dream  that,  in  every  detail,  was 
familiar  to  Northrup  and  exact  in  its  repetition. 

Northrup  had  not  been  long  at  the  inn  when  the  significant 
dream  came. 

He  was  back  in  a  big  sunny  room  that  he  knew  as  well  as 
his  own  in  his  mother's  house.  There  he  stood,  like  a  glad, 
returned  traveller,  counting  the  pieces  of  furniture;  deeply 
grateful  that  they  were  in  their  places  and  carefully  preserved. 

The  minutest  articles  were  noted.  A  vase  of  flowers;  the 
curtains  swaying  in  the  breeze;  an  elusive  odour  that  often 
haunted  Northrup's  waking  hours.  The  room  was  now  as 
it  always  had  been.  That  being  assured,  Northrup,  still  in 
deep  sleep,  turned  to  the  corridor  and  expectantly  viewed  the 
closed  doors.  But  right  here  a  new  note  was  interjected. 
Previously,  the  corridor  and  doors  were  things  he  had  gazed 
upon,  feeling  as  a  stranger  might;  but  now  they  were  like  the 
room;  quite  his  own.  He  had  trod  the  passage;  had  looked 
into  the  empty  rooms — they  were  empty  but  had  held  a  sug- 
gestion of  things  about  to  occur. 

And  then  waking  suddenly,  Northrup  understood — he  had 
come  to  the  place  of  his  dream.  The  Inn  was  the  old  setting. 
In  a  clairvoyant  state,  he  had  been  in  this  place  before! 

He  went  to  the  door  of  his  room  and  glanced  down  the 
passage.  All  was  quiet.  The  dream  made  an  immediate 
impression  on  Northrup.  Not  only  did  it  arouse  his  power 
of  creation,  strengthen  and  illumine  it;  but  it  evolved  a  sense 
of  hurry  that  inspired  him  without  worrying  him.  It  was 
like  the  frenzy  that  seizes  an  artist  when  he  wants  to  get  a  bit 
of  beauty  on  canvas  in  a  certain  light  that  may  change  in 


58  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

the  next  minute.  He  felt  that  what  he  was  about  to  do  must 
be  done  rapidly  and  he  knew  that  he  would  have  strength  to 
meet  the  demand. 

He  was  quickened  to  every  slight  thing  that  came  his  way: 
faces,  voices,  colour.  He  realized  the  unrest  that  his  very 
innocent  presence  inspired.  He  wondered  about  it.  What 
lay  seething  under  the  thick  crust  of  King's  Forest  that  was 
bubbling  to  the  surface?  Was  his  coming  the  one  thing 
needed  to — to 

And  then  he  thought  of  that  figure  of  speech  that  Manly 
had  used.  The  black  lava  flowing;  oozing,  silently.  The 
whole  world,  in  the  big  and  in  the  little,  was  being  awakened 
and  aroused — it  was  that,  not  his  presence,  that  confused  the 
Forest. 

The  habits  of  the  house  amused  and  moved  him  sym- 
pathetically. Little  Aunt  Polly,  it  appeared,  was  Judge  and 
Final  Court  of  Justice  to  the  people.  Through  her  he  felt 
he  must  look  for  guidance  and  understanding. 

There  were  always  two  hours  in  the  afternoons  set  aside 
for  "hearings."  Perched  on  the  edge  of  the  couch,  pillows  to 
right  and  left,  eyeglasses  aslant  and  knitting  in  hand,  Aunt 
Polly  was  at  the  disposal  of  her  neighbours.  They  could 
make  appointments  for  private  interviews  or  air  their  griev- 
ances before  others,  as  the  spirit  urged  them.  Awful  ver- 
dicts, clean-cut  and  simple,  were  arrived  at;  advice,  grim  and 
far-reaching,  was  generously  given,  but  woe  to  the  liar  or 
sniveller. 

A  curious  sort  of  understanding  grew  up  between  Northrup 
and  the  little  woman  concerning  these  conclaves.  Polly 
sensed  his  interest  in  all  that  went  on  and  partly  compre- 
hended the  real  reason  for  it.  She  had  been  strangely  im- 
pressed by  the  knowledge  that  her  guest  was  a  writer-man 
and  therefore  conscientious  about  the  mental  food  she  set 
before  him.  She  did  not  share  Peter's  doubts.  Some 
things  she  felt  were  not  for  Northrup  and  that  fast-flying  pen 
of  his!  But  there  were  other  glimpses  behind  the  shields  of 
King's  Forest  that  did  not  matter.  To  these  Northrup  was 
welcome. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  59 

When  the  hour  came  for  court  to  sit,  it  became  Northrup's 
habit  to  seek  the  front  porch  for  exercise  and  fresh  air.  Some- 
times the  window  nearest  to  Aunt  Polly's  sofa  would  be  left 
open!  Sometimes  it  was  closed. 

In  the  latter  emergency  Northrup  sought  his  exercise  and 
fresh  air  at  a  distance. 

One  day  Maclin  called.  Northrup  had  not  seen  him  before 
and  was  interested.  Indirectly  he  was  concerned  with  the 
story  in  hand  for  he  was  the  mysterious  friend  of  Larry  Rivers 
and  the  puller  of  many  strings  in  King's  Forest;  strings  that 
were  manipulated  in  ways  that  aroused  suspicion  and  would 
be  great  stuff  in  a  book. 

Northrup  had  seen  Maclin  from  his  room  window  and, 
when  all  was  safe,  quietly  took  to  the  back  stairs  and  silently 
reached  the  piazza. 

The  window  by  Aunt  Polly's  couch  was  open  a  little  higher 
than  usual  and  the  words  that  greeted  Northrup  were: 

"/  call  it  muggy,  Mr.  Maclin.  That's  what  /  call  it,  and 
if  the  draught  hits  the  nape  of  your  neck,  set  the  other  side  of 
the  hearth  where  there  ain't  no  draught." 

This,  apparently,  the  caller  proceeded  to  do.  Outside 
Northrup  took  a  chair  and  refrained  from  smoking.  He 
wanted  his  presence  to  be  unsuspected  by  the  caller.  He  was 
confident  that  Aunt  Polly  knew  of  his  proximity,  and  he  felt 
sure  that  Maclin  had  come  to  find  out  more  about  him. 

From  the  first  Northrup  was  aware  of  a  subtle  meaning  for 
the  call  and  he  wondered  if  the  woman,  clicking  her  needles, 
fully  comprehended  it!  The  man,  Maclin,  he  soon  gathered, 
was  no  ordinary  personage.  He  had  a  kind  of  superficial 
polish  and  culture  that  were  evident  in  the  tones  of  his  voice. 
After  having  accounted  for  his  presence  by  stating  that  he 
was  looking  about  a  bit  and  felt  like  being  friendly,  Maclin 
was  rounded  up  by  Aunt  Polly  asking  what  he  was  looking 
about  at? 

Maclin  laughed. 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  he  said,  as  if  taking  Aunt  Polly  ''nto 
his  intimate  confidence,  "I  was  looking  at  the  Point.  A 
darned  dirty  bit  of  ground  with  all  those  squatters  on  it." 


6o  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"We  haven't  ever  called  'em  that,  Mr.  Maclin.  They're 
folks  with  nowhere  else  to  live."  Aunt  Polly  clicked  her 
needles. 

"They're  a  dirty,  lazy  lot.  I  can't  get  'em  to  work  over 
at  the  mines,  do  what  I  will." 

"As  to  that,  Mr.  Maclin,  folks  as  are  mostly  drunk  on  bad 
whiskey  can't  be  expected  to  do  good  work,  can  they?  Then 
again,  if  they  are  sober,  I  dare  say  they  are  too  keen  about 
those  inventions  of  yours  that  must  be  so  secret.  Foreigners, 
for  that  purpose,  I  reckon  are  easier  to  manage." 

Maclin  shifted  his  position  and  put  the  nape  of  his  neck 
nearer  the  window  again  and  Northrup  lost  any  doubt  he  had 
about  Aunt  Polly's  understanding  of  the  situation. 

Maclin  laughed.  It  was  a  trick  of  his  to  laugh  while  he 
got  control  of  himself. 

"You're  a  real  idealist,  Miss  Heathcote;  most  ladies  are, 
some  men  are,  too,  until  they  have  to  handle  the  ugly  facts 
of  life." 

Peter  was  meant  by  "some  men,"  Northrup  suspected. 

"Now,  speaking  of  the  whiskey,  Miss  Heathcote,  it's  3* 
good  over  at  my  place  as  the  men  can  afford,  and  better,  too. 
I  don't  make  anything  at  the  Cosey  Bar,  I  can  assure  you. 
but  I  know  that  men  have  to  have  their  drink,  and  I  think 
it's  better  to  keep  it  under  control." 

"That's  real  human  of  you,  Mr.  Maclin,  but  I  wish  to  good- 
ness you'd  keep  the  men  under  control  after  they've  had 
their  drink.  They  certainly  do  make  a  mess  of  the  peace 
and  happiness  of  others  while  they're  indulging  in  their 
rights." 

A  silence,  then  Maclin  started  again.  "Truth  is,  Miss 
Heathcote,  the  men  'round  here  are  shucks,  and  I'm  keeping 
my  eye  open  for  the  real  interest  of  King's  Forest,  not  the 
sentimental  interest.  Now,  that  Point — we  ought  to  clean 
that  up,  build  decent,  comfortable  cottages  there  and  a  wharf; 
keep  the  men  as  have  ambition  and  can  pay  rents,  and  get 
others  in,  foreigners  if  you  like,  who  know  their  business  and 
can  set  a  good  example.  We're  all  running  to  seed  down  here, 
Miss  Heathcote,  and  that's  a  fact.  I  don't  mind  telling  you, 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  61 

you're  a  woman  of  a  thousand  and  can  see  what's  what,  I 
am  inventing  some  pretty  clever  things  down  at  my  place 
and  it  wouldn't  be  safe  to  let  on  until  they're  perfected,  and 
I  do  want  good  workers,  not  loafers  or  snoopers,  and  I  do 
want  that  Point.  It's  nearer  to  the  mines  than  any  othet 
spot  on  the  Lake.  I  want  to  build  a  good  road  to  it;  the 
squatters  could  be  utilized  on  that — the  Pointers,  I  mean. 
You  and  your  brother  ought  to  be  keen  enough  to  work  with 
me,  not  against  me.  Sentiment  oughtn't  to  go  too  far  where 
a  lot  of  lazy  beggars  are  concerned." 

The  clicking  of  the  needles  was  the  only  sound  after  Mac- 
lin's  long  speech;  he  was  waiting  and  breathing  quicker. 
Northrup  could  hear  the  deep  breathing. 

"How  do  you  feel  about  it,  Miss  Heathcote?" 

"Oh!  I  don't  let  my  feelings  get  the  better  of  me  till  I 
know  what's  stirring  them." 

Northrup  stifled  a  laugh,  but  Maclin,  feeling  secure, 
laughed  loudly. 

"It's  like  asking  me,  Mr.  Maclin,  to  get  stirred  up  and  set 
going  by  a  pig  in  a  poke."  Aunt  Polly's  voice  was  thin  and 
sharp.  "I  always  see  the  pig  before  I  get  excited,  maybe  it 
would  be  best  kept  in  the  poke.  Now,  Peter  and  me  have  a 
real  feeling  about  the  Point — it  belonged,  as  far  as  we  know, 
to  old  Doctor  Rivers,  and  all  that  he  had  he  left  to  Mary- 
Clare  and  we  feel  sort  of  responsible  to  him  and  her.  We 
would  all  shield  anything  that  belonged  to  the  old  doctor." 

"Is  her  title  clear  to  that  land?"  Maclin  did  not  laugh 
now,  Northrup  noted  that. 

"Land!  Mr.  Maclin,  anything  as  high-sounding  as  a  title 
tacked  on  to  the  Point  is  real  ridiculous!  But  if  the  title 
ain't  clear,  I  guess  brother  Peter  can  make  it  so.  Peter  being 
magistrate  comes  in  handy." 

"Miss  Heathcote" — from  his  tones  Northrup  judged  that 
Maclin  was  coming  into  the  open — "Miss  Heathcote,  the  title 
of  the  Point  isn't  a  clear  one.  I've  made  it  my  business  to 
find  out.  Now  I'm  going  to  prove  my  friendliness — I'm  not 
going  to  push  what  I  know,  I'll  take  all  the  risks  myself.  I'll 
give  Mrs.  Rivers  a  fair  price  for  that  land  and  everything  will 


62  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

be  peaceful  and  happy  if  you  will  use  your  influence  with  hei 
and  the  squatters.  Will  you?" 

Aunt  Polly  slipped  from  the  sofa.  Northrup  heard  her,  and 
imagined  the  look  on  her  face. 

"No,  Mr.  Maclin,  I  won't!  When  the  occasion  rises  up, 
I'll  advise  Mary-Clare  against  pigs  in  pokes  and  I'll  advise 
the  squatters  to  squat  on!" 

Northrup  again  had  difficulty  in  smothering  his  laugh,  but 
Maclin's  next  move  surprised  and  sobered  him. 

"Isn't  that  place  under  the  stairs,  Miss  Heathcote,  where 
the  bar  of  the  old  inn  used  to  be?" 

"Yes,  sir,  yes!"  It  was  an  ominous  sign  when  Aunt  Polly 
addressed  any  one  as  "sir."  "  But  that  was  before  our  time. 
Peter  and  I  cleaned  the  place  out  as  best  we  could,  but  there 
are  times  now,  even,  while  I  sit  here  alone  in  the  dark,  when 
I  seem  to  see  shadows  of  poor  wives  and  mothers  and  children 
stealing  in  that  door  a-looking  for  their  men.  Don't  that 
thought  ever  haunt  you,  Mr.  Maclin,  over  at  the  Cosey 
Bar?" 

They  were  sparring,  these  two. 

"No,  it  never  does.  I  take  things  as  they  are,  Miss  Heath- 
cote,  and  let  them  go  at  that.  Now,  if  /  were  to  run  this 
place,  do  you  know,  I'd  do  it  right  and  proper  and  have  a 
what's  what  and  make  money." 

"But  you're  not  running  this  inn,  sil. " 

"Certainly  I'm  not  now,  that's  plain  enough,  or  I'd  make 
King's  Forest  sit  up  and  take  notice.  Well,  well,  Miss 
Heathcote,  just  talk  over  with  your  brother  what  I've 
said  to  you.  A  man  looks  at  some  things  different  from  a 
woman.  Good-bye,  ma'am,  good-bye.  Looks  as  if  it  were 
clearing." 

As  Maclin  came  upon  the  piazza  he  stopped  short  at  the 
sight  of  Northrup  by  the  open  window.  He  wasn't  often 
betrayed  into  showing  surprise,  but  he  was  now.  He  had 
come  hoping  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  stranger;  had  come  to 
get  in  an  early  warning  of  his  power,  but  he  wanted  to  control 
conditions. 

"Good  afternoon,"  he  muttered.     "Looks  more  like  clear- 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  63 

ing,  doesn't  it?  Stranger  in  these  parts?  I've  heard  of  you; 
haven't  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you." 

Northrup  regarded  Maclin  coolly  as  one  man  does  another 
when  there  is  no  apparent  reason  why  he  should  not. 

"The  clouds  do  seem  lifting.  No,  I'm  not  what  you  might 
call  a  stranger  in  King's  Forest.  Some  lake,  isn't  it,  and  good 
woodland?" 

"One  of  the  family,  eh?  Happy  to  meet  you."  Maclin 
offered  a  broad,  heavy  hand.  Northrup  took  it  and  smiled 
cordially  without  speaking.  "Staying  on  some  time?" 

"I  haven't  decided  exactly." 

"Come  over  to  the  mines  and  look  around.  Nothing  there 
as  yet  but  a  dump  heap,  so  to  speak,  but  I'm  working  out  a  big 
proposition  and  while  I  have  to  go  slow  and  keep  somewhat 
under  cover  for  a  time — I  don't  mind  showing  what  can  be 
shown." 

"Thanks,"  Northrup  nodded,  "I'll  get  over  if  I  find  time. 
I'm  here  on  business  myself  and  am  rather  busy  in  a  slow, 
lazy  fashion,  but  I'll  not  forget." 

Maclin  put  on  his  hat  and  turned  away.  Northrup  got  an 
unpleasant  impression  of  the  man's  head  in  the  back.  It 
was  flat  and  his  neck  met  it  in  flabby  folds  that  wrinkled 
under  certain  emotions  as  other  men's  foreheads  did.  The 
expressive  neck  was  wrinkling  now. 

Giving  Aunt  Polly  time  to  recover  her  poise,  Northrup 
went  inside.  He  found  the  small  woman  hovering  about  the 
room,  patting  the  furniture,  dusting  it  here  and  there  with 
her  apron.  Her  glasses  were  quite  misty. 

"I  hope  you  kept  your  ears  open,"  she  exclaimed  when 
she  turned  to  Northrup. 

"I  did,  Aunt  Polly!  Come,  sit  down  and  let's  talk  it 
over." 

Polly  obeyed  at  once  and  let  restraint  drop. 

"That  man  has  a  real  terrible  effect  on  me,  son.  He's 
like  acid  sorter  creeping  in.  I  don't  suppose  he  could  do 
what  he  hints — but  his  hints  just  naturally  make  me  anxious." 

"He  cannot  get  a  hold  on  you,  Aunt  Polly.  Surely  your 
brother  is  more  than  a  match  for  any  one  like  Maclin." 


64  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"When  it  comes  to  that,  son,  Peter  can  fight  his  own  in 
the  open,  but  he  ain't  any  hand  to  sense  danger  in  the  dark 
till  it's  too  late.  Peter  never  can  believe  a  fellow  man  is 
doing  him  a  bad  turn  till  he's  bowled  over.  But  then,"  she 
ran  on  plaintively,  "it  ain't  just  us — Peter,  Mary-Clare, 
and  me — it's  them  folks  down  on  the  Point,"  the  old  face 
quivered  touchingly.  "The  old  doctor  used  to  say  it  was 
God's  acre  for  the  living;  the  old  doctor  would  have  his  joke. 
The  Point  always  was  a  mean  piece  of  land  for  any  regular 
use,  but  it  reaches  out  a  bit  into  the  lake  and  the  fishing's 
good  round  it,  and  you  can  fasten  boats  to  it  and  it's  a  real 
safe  place  for  old  folks  and  children.  There's  always  drift- 
ing creatures  wherever  you  may  be,  son,  and  King's  Forest 
has  'em,  but  the  old  doctor  held  as  they  ought  to  have  some 
place  to  move  in,  if  we  let  'em  be  born.  So  he  set  aside  the 
Point  and  never  took  anything  from  them,  though  he  gave 
them  a  lot,  what  with  doctoring  and  funerals.  Dear,  dear! 
there  are  real  comical  happenings  at  the  Point.  I  often  sit 
and  shake  over  them.  Real  human  nature  down  there! 
Mary-Clare  goes  down  and  reads  the  Bible  to  the  Pointers — 
they  just  about  adore  her,  and  she  wouldn't  sell  them  out, 
not  for  bread  and  butter  for  her  very  own!  It's  the  title  as 
worries  Peter  and  me,  son.  We've  always  known  it  was 
tricky,  but,  lands!  we  never  thought  it  would  come  to  ar» 
guing  about  and  I  put  it  to  you:  What  does  this  Maclin  man 
want  of  that  Point?" 

Northrup  looked  interested. 

"I'm  going  to  find  out,"  he  said  presently,  feeling  strangely 
as  if  he  had  become  part  and  parcel  of  the  matter.  "  I'm 
going  to  find  out  and  you  mustn't  worry  any  more,  Aunt 
Polly.  We'll  try  Maclin  at  his  own  game  and  go  him  one 
better.  He  cannot  account  for  me,  I'm  making  him  un- 
easy. Now  you  help  the  thing  along  by  just  squatting — • 
that's  a  good  phrase  of  yours;  one  can  accomplish  much  by 
just  squatting  on  his  holdings." 

And  now  that  tricky  imagination  of  Northrup's  pictured 
Mary-Clare  in  the  thick  of  it  and  carrying  out  the  old  doc- 
tor's whims;  taking  to  the  desolate  bit  of  ground  the  sweet- 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  65 

ness  and  brightness  of  her  loveliness.  It  was  disconcerting, 
but  at  the  same  time  gratifying,  that  pervasive  quality  of 
Mary-Clare.  She  was  already  as  deep  in  the  plot  of  North- 
rup's  work  as  she  was  in  the  Forest.  Whenever  Northrup 
saw  her,  and  he  did  often,  on  the  road  he  was  amused  at  the 
feeling  he  had  of  knowing  her.  So  might  it  be  had  he  come 
across  an  old  acquaintance  who  did  not  recognize  him.  It 
was  a  feeling  wrought  with  excitement  and  danger;  he  might 
some  day  startle  her  by  taking  advantage  of  it. 

The  weather,  after  the  storm,  took  an  unexpected  turn. 
Instead  of  bringing  frost  it  brought  days  almost  as  warm  as 
late  summer.  The  colour  glistened;  the  leaves  clung  to 
the  branches,  but  the  nights  were  cool.  The  lake  lay  like  an 
opal,  flashing  gorgeously  in  the  sun,  or  like  a  moonstone, 
when  the  sun  sank  behind  the  hills. 

One  afternoon  Northrup  went  to  the  deserted  chapel  on 
the  island.  He  walked  around  the  building  which  was  cov- 
ered with  a  crimson  vine;  he  looked  up  at  the  belfry,  in  which 
hung  the  bell  so  responsive  to  unseen  hands. 

The  place  was  like  a  haunted  spot,  but  beautiful  beyond 
words.  Northrup  tried  the  door — it  swung  in;  it  shared  the 
peculiarities  of  all  the  other  doors  of  the  Forest. 

Inside,  the  light  came  ruddily  through  the  scarlet  creeper 
that  covered  the  windows — no  stained  glass  could  have  been 
more  exquisite;  the  benches  were  dusty  and  uncushioned,  the 
pulpit  dark  and  reproving  in  its  aloofness.  By  the  most  west- 
erly window  there  was  a  space  where,  apparently,  an  organ 
had  once  stood.  There  was  a  table  near  by  and  a  chair. 

An  idea  gripped  Northrup — he  would  come  to  the  chapel 
and  write.  There  was  a  stove  by  the  door.  He  could 
utilize  that  should  necessity  arise. 

He  sat  down  and  considered.  Presently  he  was  lost  in 
the  working  out  of  his  growing  plot;  already  he  was  well  on  his 
way.  Over  night,  as  it  were,  his  theme  had  become  clear 
and  connected.  He  meant  to  become  part  of  his  book, 
rather  than  its  creator;  he  would  be  governed  by  events; 
not  seek  to  govern  them.  In  short,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  he 
would  live,  the  next  few  weeks,  as  a  man  does  who  has  lost 


66  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

his  identity  and  moves  among  his  fellows,  intent  on  the  pres- 
ent, but  with  the  background  a  blank. 

Northrup  felt  that  if,  at  the  end  of  his  self-ordained  exile, 
he  had  regained  his  health,  outlined  a  book,  and  ascertained 
what  was  the  cause  of  the  suspicious  unrest  of  the  Forest, 
he  would  have  accomplished  more  than  he  had  set  out  to  do 
and  would  be  in  a  position  where  he  could  decide  definitely 
upon  his  course  regarding  the  war,  about  which  few,  appar- 
ently, felt  as  he  did. 

It  was  his  spiritual  and  physical  struggle,  as  he  contem- 
plated the  matter  now,  that  was  his  .undoing.  He  was  trying 
to  drive  the  horror  from  his  consciousness,  as  a  thing  apart 
from  him  and  his.  He  was  overwhelmed  by  the  possessive- 
ness  of  the  awful  thing.  It  caught  and  held  him,  threatened 
everything  he  held  sacred.  Well,  this  should  be  the  test! 
He  would  abide  by  the  outcome  of  his  stay  in  the  Forest. 

At  that  moment  Maclin,  oddly  enough,  came  into  North- 
rup's  thoughts  and  the  fat,  ingratiating  man  became  part,  not 
of  the  plot  of  the  book,  but  the  grim  struggle  across  the  sea. 

"Good  God!"  Northrup  spoke  aloud;  "could  it  be  possi- 
ble?" All  along  he  had  been  able  to  ignore  the  suggestions 
of  disloyalty  and  treachery  that  many  of  his  friends  held,  but 
a  glaring  possibility  of  Maclin  playing  a  hideous  role  alarmed 
him;  made  every  fibre  of  his  being  stiffen.  The  man  was 
undoubtedly  German,  though  his  name  was  not.  What  was 
he  up  to? 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  human  beings  are  aware  of 
being  but  puppets  in  a  big  game;  they  may  tug  at  the  strings 
that  control  them;  may  perform  within  certain  limits,  but 
must  resign  themselves  tothefactthat  the  strings  are  unbreak- 
able. Such  a  feeling  possessed  Northrup  now.  He  laughed. 
He  was  not  inclined  to  struggle — he  bowed  to  the  inevitable 
with  a  keen  desire  for  cooperation. 

At  this  point  something  caused  Northrup  to  look  around. 

Upon  a  bench  near  by,  hunched  like  a  gargoyle,  with  her 
vague  face  nested  in  the  palms  of  her  thin  hands,  sat  the 
girl  he  had  noted  in  the  yellow  house  the  day  of  his  arrival. 
One  glance  at  her  and  she  seemed  to  bring  the  scene  back. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  67 

The  sunny  room,  the  children,  the  dogs,  and  the  girl  on  the 
table,  who  had  soon  become  so  familiar  to  him. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  ejaculated.     "And  who  are  you?" 

"Jan-an." 

Another  name  become  a  person!  Northrup  smiled.  They 
were  all  materializing;  the  names,  the  stories. 

"I  see.     Well?" 

There  was  a  pause.  The  girl  was  studying  him  slowly,  al- 
most painfully,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"Where  do  you  live,  Jan-an?" 

This  made  talk  and  filled  an  uncomfortable  pause. 

"One  place  and  another.     I  was  left." 

"Left?" 

"Yep.  Left  on  the  town.  Folks  take  me  in  turn-about. 
I  just  jog  along.  I'm  staying  over  to  the  Point  now.  Next 
I'm  going  to  Aunt  Polly.  I  chooses,  I  do.  I  likes  to  jog 
along." 

The  girl  was  inclined  to  be  friendly  and  she  was  amusing. 

"  Did  you  hear  the  bell  ring  the  night  you  came — the  ha'nt 
bell?"  she  asked. 

"I  certainly  did." 

"Twas  a  warning,  and  then  here  you  are!  Generally 
warnings  mean  bad  things,  but  Aunt  Polly  says  you're  right 
enough  and  generally  they  ain't  when  they're  young." 

"Who  are  not,  Jan-an?" 

"Men.  When  they  get  old, 'like  Uncle  Peter,  they  meller 
or " 

"Or  what?" 

"Naturally  dropoff." 

Northrup  laughed.  The  sound  disturbed  the  girl  and  she 
scowled. 

"It's  terrible  to  have  folks  think  you're  a  fool  to  be  laughed 
at,"  she  muttered.  "  I  can't  get  things  over." 

"What  do  you  want  to  get  over,  Jan-an?" 

Northrup  was  becoming  interested.  If  straws  show  the 
wind's  quarter,  then  a  bit  of  driftwrood  may  be  depended  upon 
to  indicate  the  course  of  a  stream.  Northrup  was  again 
both  amused  and  surprised  to  find  how  his  very  ordinary  pres- 


68  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

ence  in  King's  Forest  was,  apparently,  affecting  the  natives. 
Jan-an  took  on  new  proportions  as  she  was  regarded  in  the 
light  of  a  straw  or  a  bit  of  driftwood. 

" Yer  feelin's,"  the  girl  answered  simply.  "When  you  don' 
understand  like  most  do,  yer  feelin's  count,  they  do!" 

"They  certainly  do,  Jan-an." 

The  girl  considered  this  and  struggled,  evidently,  to  adjust 
her  companion  to  suit  her  needs,  but  at  last  she  shook  her 
head. 

"I  ain't  going  to  take  no  chances  with  yer!"  she  muttered 
at  length.  "Tain't  natural.  Aunt  Polly  and  Uncle  Peter 
ain't  risking  so  much  as — her " 

"You  mean "  Northrup  felt  guilty.  He  knew  whom 

the  girl  meant — he  felt  as  if  he  were  taking  advantage; 
eavesdropping  or  reading  someone  else's  letter. 

Jan-an  sunk  her  face  deeper  into  the  cup  of  her  hands^ 
this  pressed  her  features  up  and  made  her  look  laughably 
ugly.  She  was  not  taking  much  heed  of  the  man  near  by;  she 
was  seeking  to  collect  all  the  shreds  of  evidence  she  had  gath- 
ered from  listening,  in  her  rapt,  tense  way,  and  making  some 
definite  case  for,  or  against,  the  stranger  who,  Aunt  Polly 
had  assured  her,  was  "good  and  proper." 

"Now,  everything  was  running  on  same  as  common," 
Jan-an  muttered — "same  as  common.  Then  that  old  ha'nt 
bell  took  to  ringing,  like  all  possessed.  I  just  naturally 
thought  'bout  you  dropping  out  of  a  clear  sky  and  asking 
us  the  way  to  the  inn  when  it  was  plain  as  the  nose  on  yer 
face  how  yer  should  go.  What  do  you  suppose  folks  paint 
sign-boards  for,  eh?"  The  twisted  ideas  sprang  into  a 
question. 

"That's  one  on  me,  Jan-an!"  Northrup  laughed.  "I 
was  afraid  I'd  be  found  out." 

"Can't  yer  read?"  Jan-an  could  not  utterly  distrust  this 
person  who  was  puzzling  her. 

"Yes,  I  can  read  and  write,  Jan-an." 

"Then  what  in  tarnation  made  yer  plump  in  that  way?" 

"The  Lord  knows,  Jan-an!"  Almost  the  tone  was  rev- 
erent. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  69 

"Then  he  came  ructioning  in — Larry,  I  mean.  An'  every- 
thing is  different  from  what  it  was.  Just  like  a  bubbling  pot" 
— poor  Jan-an  grew  picturesque — "with  the  top  wobbling.  I 
wish" — she  turned  pleading  eyes  on  Northrup — "I  wish  ter 
God  you'd  clear  out." 

For  a  moment  Northrup  felt  again  the  weakening  desire 
to  follow  this  advice,  but,  as  he  thought  on,  his  chin  set 
in  a  fixed  way  that  meant  that  he  was  not  going  to  move  on, 
but  stay  where  he  was.  He  meant,  also,  to  get  what  he  could 
from  this  strange  creature  who  had  sought  him  out.  He 
convinced  himself  that  it  was  legitimate,  and  since  he  meant 
to  get  at  the  bottom  of  what  was  going  on,  he  must  use 
what  came  to  hand. 

"So  Larry  has  come  back?"  he  asked  indifferently.  Then: 
"I've  caught  sight  of  him  from  a  distance.  Good-looking 
fellow,  this  Larry  of  yours,  Jan-an." 

"He  ain't  mine.  If  he  was "  Jan-an  looked  mutinous 

and  Northrup  laughed. 

"See  here,  you!"  The  girl  was  irritated  by  the  laugh. 
"Larry,  he  thinks  that  Mary-Clare  has  set  eyes  on  yer 
before  yer  came  that  day.  Larry  is  making  ructions,  and 
folks  are  talking." 

"Well,  that's  ridiculous."  Northrup  found  his  heart 
beating  a  bit  quicker. 

"I  know  it  is,  but  Maclin  can  make  Larry  think  anything. 
Honest  to  God,  yer  ain't  siding  'long  of  Maclin?" 

"  Honest  to  God,  Jan-an,  I'm  not." 

"Then  why  did  yer  stumble  in  on  us  that  way?" 

"I  don't  know,  Jan-an.     That's  honest  to  God,  too!" 

"Then  if  nothing  is  mattering  ter  yer,  and  one  place  is  as 
good  as  another,  why  don't  you  go  along?" 

Northrup  gave  this  due  consideration.  He  was  preparing  to 
answer  something  in  his  own  mind.  The  dull-faced  girl  was 
having  a  peculiar  effect  upon  him.  He  was  getting  excited. 

"Well,  Jan-an,"  he  said  at  last,  "it's  this  way.  Things 
are  mattering.  Mattering  like  thunder!  And  one  place 
isn't  as  good  as  another;  this  place  is  the  only  place  on  the 
map  just  now — catch  on?" 


70  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Jan-an  was  making  strenuous  efforts  to  "catch  on";  her 
face  appeared  like  a  rubber  mask  that  unseen  fingers  were 
pinching  into  comical  expressions. 

Northrup  began  to  wonder  just  how  mentally  lacking  the 
girl  was. 

"But  tuck  this  away  in  your  noddle,  Jan-an.  Your  Uncle 
Peter  and  Aunt  Polly  have  the  right  understanding.  They 
trust  me,  and  you  will  some  day.  I'm  going  to  stay  right 
here — pass  that  along  to  anyone  who  asks  you,  Jan-an.  I'm 
going  to  stay  here  and  see  this  thing  out!" 

"What  thing?" 

The  elusive  something  that  was  puzzling  the  girl,  the 
cense  of  something  wrong  that  her  blinded  but  sensitive  na- 
ture suffered  from,  loomed  close.  This  man  might  make  it 
plain. 

"What  thing?"  she  asked  huskily.  Then  Northrup 
laughed  that  disturbing  laugh  of  his. 

"I  don't  know,  Jan-an.  'Pon  my  soul,  girl,  I'd  give  a 
good  deal  to  know,  but  I  don't.  I'm  like  you,  just  feeling 
things." 

Jan-an  rose  stiffly  as  if  she  were  strung  on  wires.  Her 
joints  cracked  as  they  fell  into  place,  but  once  the  long  body 
stood  upright,  Northrup  noticed  that  it  was  not  without  a 
certain  rough  grace  and  it  looked  strong  and  capable  of  great 
endurance. 

"I've  been  following  you  since  the  first  day  when  you 
landed,"  Jan-an  spoke  calmly.  There  was  no  warning  or 
distrust  in  the  voice,  merely  a  statement  of  fact.  "And  I'm 
going  to  keep  on  following  and  watching,  so  long  as  you 
stay." 

"Good!  I'll  never  be  really  lonely  then,  and  you'll  sooner 
get  to  trusting  me." 

"I  ain't  much  for  trusting  till  I  knows." 

The  girl  turned  and  strode  away.  "Well»  if  you  ever 
need  me,  try  me  out,  Jan-an.  Good-bye." 

Northrup  felt  ill  at  ease  after  Jan-an  passed  from  sight. 

"Of  all  the  messes!"  he  thought.  "It  makes  me  super- 
stitious. What's  the  matter  with  rliis  Forest  ? " 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  71 

And  then  Maclin  again  came  into  focus.  Around  Maclin, 
apparently,  the  public  thought  revolved. 

"They  don't  trust  Maclin."  Northrup  began  to  reduce 
things  to  normal.  "He's  got  them  guessing  with  his  damned 
inventions  and  secrecy.  Then  every  outsider  means  a  possi- 
ble accomplice  of  Maclin.  They  hate  the  foreigners  he  brings 
here.  They  have  got  their  eyes  on  me.  All  right,  Maclin, 
my  ready-to-wear  villain,  here's  to  you!  And  before  we're 
through  with  each  other  some  interesting  things  will  occur, 
or  I'll  miss  my  guess." 

In  much  the  same  mood  of  excitement,  Northrup  had  en- 
tered upon  the  adventure  of  writing  his  former  book,  with 
this  difference:  He  had  gone  to  the  East  Side  of  his  home 
city  with  all  his  anchors  cast  in  a  familiar  harbour;  he  was 
on  the  open  sea  now.  There  had  been  his  mother  and  Kath- 
ryn  before;  the  reliefs  of  home  comforts,  "fumigations" 
Kathryn  termed  them;  now  he  was  part  of  his  environment, 
determined  to  cast  no  backward  look  until  his  appointed  task 
was  finished  in  failure  or — success. 

The  chapel  and  the  day  had  soothed  and  comforted  him: 
he  was  ready  to  abandon  the  hold  on  every  string.  This 
space  of  time,  of  unfettered  thought  and  work,  was  like  exist- 
ence in  a  preparation  camp.  This  became  a  fixed  idea  pres- 
ently— he  was  being  prepared  for  service;  fitted  for  his  place 
-n  a  new  Scheme.  That  was  the  only  safe  way  to  regard  life, 
At  the  best.  Here,  there,  it  mattered  not,  but  the  prepara- 
-•on  counted. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHEN  Mary-Clare  awoke  the  next  morning  she  heard 
Larry  still  moving  about  overhead  as  if  he  had  been 
doing  it  all  night.  He  was  opening  drawers;  going 
to  and  fro  between  closet  and  bed;  pausing,  rustling  papers, 
and  giving  the  impression,  generallv,  that  he  was  bent  upon  a 
definite  plan. 

Noreen  was  sleeping  deeply,  one  little  arm  stretched  over 
her  pillow  and  toward  her  mother  as  if  feeling  for  the  dear 
presence.  Somehow  the  picture  comforted  Mary-Clare. 
She  was  strangely  at  peace.  After  her  bungling — and  she 
knew  she  had  bungled  with  Larry — she  had  secured  safety 
for  Noreen  and  herself.  It  was  right:  the  other  way  would 
have  bent  and  cowed  her  and  ended  as  so  many  women's  lives 
ended.  Larry  never  could  understand,  but  God  could! 
Mary-Clare  had  a  simple  faith  and  it  helped  her  now. 

While  she  lay  thinking  and  looking  at  Noreen  she  became 
conscious  of  Larry  tiptoeing  downstairs.  She  started  up 
hoping  to  begin  the  new  era  as  right  as  might  be.  She  wanted 
to  get  breakfast  and  start  whatever  might  follow  as  sanely  as 
possible. 

But  Larry  had  gone  so  swiftly,  once  he  reached  the  lower 
floor,  that  only  by  running  after  him  in  her  light  apparel 
could  she  attract  his  attention.  He  was  out  of  the  house 
and  on  the  road  toward  the  mines! 

Then  Mary-Clare,  seized  by  one  of  those  presentiments 
that  often  light  a  dark  moment,  closed  the  door,  shivering 
slightly,  and  went  upstairs. 

The  carefully  prepared  bedchamber  was  in  great  disorder. 
The  bedclothes  were  pulled  from  the  bed  and  lay  in  a  heap 
oear  by;  towels,  the  soiled  linen  that  Larry  had  discarded  for 

7* 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  73 

the  fresh,  that  had  been  placed  in  the  bureau  drawers,  was 
rolled  in  a  bundle  and  flung  on  the  hearth. 

This  aspect  of  the  room  did  not  surprise  Mary-Clare. 
Larry  generally  dropped  what  he  was  for  the  moment 
through  with,  but  there  was  more  here  than  heedless  careless- 
ness. Drawers  were  pulled  out  and  empty.  The  closet  was 
open  and  empty.  There  was  a  finality  about  the  scene  that 
could  not  be  misunderstood.  Larry  was  gone  in  a  definite 
and  sweeping  manner. 

Dazed  and  perplexed,  Mary-Clare  went  to  the  closet  and 
suddenly  was  made  aware,  by  the  sight  of  an  empty  box 
upon  the  floor,  that  in  her  preparation  of  the  room  she  had 
left  that  box,  containing  the  old  letters  of  her  doctor,  on  a 
shelf  and  that  now  they  had  been  taken  away! 

What  this  loss  signified  could  hardly  be  estimated  at 
first.  So  long  had  those  letters  been  guide-posts  and  rein- 
forcements, so  long  had  they  comforted  and  soothed  her  like 
4  touch  or  look  of  her  old  friend,  that  now  she  raised  the 
empty  box  with  a  sharp  sense  of  pain.  So  might  she  gaze 
at  Noreen's  empty  crib  had  the  child  been  taken  from  her. 

Then,  intuitively,  Mary-Clare  tried  to  be  just,  she  thought 
that  Larry  must  have  taken  the  letters  because  of  old  and 
now  severed  connections  They  were  his  letters,  but 

Here  Mary-Clare,  also  because  she  was  just,  considered  the 
other  possible  cause.  Larry  might  use  the  letters  against  her 
in  the  days  to  come.  Show  them  to  others  to  prove  her 
falseness  and  ingratitude.  This  possibility,  however,  was 
only  transitory.  What  she  had  done  was  inevitable,  Mary- 
Clare  knew  that,  and  it  seemed  to  her  right — oh!  so  right. 
There  was  only  one  real  fact  to  face.  Larry  wras  gone;  the 
letters  were  gone. 

Mary-Clare  began  to  tremble.  The  cold  room,  all  that  had 
so  deeply  moved  her  was  shaking  her  nerves.  Then  she 
thought  that  in  his  hurry  Larry  might  have  overturned  the 
box — the  letters  might  be  on  the  shelf  still.  Quickly  she  went 
into  the  closet  and  felt  carefully  every  corner.  The  letters 
were  not  there. 

Then  with  white  face  and  chattering  teeth  she  turned  and 


74  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

faced  Jan-an.  The  girl  had  come  noiselessly  to  the  house 
and  found  her  way  to  the  room  where  she  had  heard  sounds — 
she  had  seen  Larry  fleeing  on  the  lake  road  as  she  came  over 
the  fields  from  the  Point. 

"What's  up?"  she  asked  in  her  dull,  even  tones,  while  in 
her  vacant  eyes  the  groping,  tender  look  grew. 

"Oh!  Jan-an,"  Mary-Clare  was  off  her  guard,  "the  letters; 
my  dear  old  doctor's  letters — they  are  gone;  gone."  Her 
feeling  seemed  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  loss. 

"Who  took  'em?"  And  then  Jan-an  did  one  of  those 
quick,  intelligent  things  that  sometimes  shamed  sharper  wits 
— she  went  to  the  hearth.  "There  ain't  been  no  fire,"  she 
muttered.  "He  ain't  burned  'em.  What  did  he  take  them 
for?" 

This  question  steadied  Mary-Clare.  "I'm  not  sure,  Jan- 
an,  that  any  one  has  taken  the  letters.  You  know  how  care- 
less I  am.  I  may  have  put  them  somewhere  else." 

"If  yer  have  there's  no  need  fussing.  I'll  find  'em.  I 
kin  find  anything  if  yer  give  me  time.  I  have  ter  get  on  the 
scent." 

Mary-Clare  gave  a  nervous  laugh. 

"Just  old  letters,"  she  murmured,  "but  they  meant,  oM 
they  meant  so  much.  Come,"  she  said  suddenly,  "come,  I 
must  dress  and  get  breakfast." 

"I've  et."  Jan-an  was  gathering  the  bedclothes  from  the 
floor.  She  selected  the  coverlid  and  brought  it  to  Mary- 
Clare.  "There,  now,"  she  whispered,  wrapping  it  about  her, 
"you  come  along  and  get  into  bed  downstairs  till  I  make 
breakfast.  You  need  looking  after  more  than  Noreen.  God ! 
what  messes  some  folks  can  make  by  just  living!" 

Things  were  reduced  to  the  commonplace  in  an  hour. 

The  warmth  of  her  bed,  the  sight  of  Noreen,  the  sound  of 
Jan-an  moving  about,  all  contributed  to  the  state  of  mind 
that  made  her  panic  almost  laughable  to  Mary-Clare. 

Things  had  happened  too  suddenly  for  her;  events  had 
become  congested  in  an  environment  that  was  antagonistic 
to  change.  A  change  had  undoubtedly  come  but  it  must  be 
met  bravely  and  faithfully. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  75 

The  sun  was  flooding  the  big  living-room  when  Mary-Clare, 
Noreen,  and  Jan-an  sat  down  to  the  meal  Jan-an  had  pre- 
pared. There  was  a  feeling  of  safety  prevailing  at  last.  And 
then  Jan-an,  her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  face  resting  in  her 
cupped  hands,  remarked  slowly  as  if  repeating  a  lesson: 

"He's  dead,  Philander  Sniff.  Went  terrible  sudden  after 
taking  all  this  time.  I  clean  forgot — letters  and  doings.  I 
can't  think  of  more  than  one  thing  at  a  time." 

Mary-Clare  set  her  cup  down  sharply  while  Noreen  with 
one  of  those  whimsical  turns  of  hers  drawled  in  a  sing-song: 

"Old  Philander  Sniff,  he  died  just  like  a  whiff 

"Noreen!"  Mary-Clare  stared  at  the  child  while  Jan-an 
chuckled  in  a  rough,  loose  way  as  if  her  laugh  were  small 
stones  rattling  in  her  throat. 

"Well,  Motherly,  Philander  was  a  cruel  old  man.  Just 
being  dead  don't  make  him  anything  different  but — dead." 

"Noreen,  you  must  keep  quiet.  Jan-an,  tell  me  about 
it." 

Mary-Clare's  voice  commanded  the  situation.  Jan-an's 
stony  gurgle  ceased  and  she  began  relating  what  she  had 
come  to  tell. 

"I  took  his  supper  over  to  him,  same  as  usual,  and  set  it 
down  on  the  back  steps,  and  when  he  opened  the  door  I  saidr 
like  I  alias  done,  '  Peneluna  says  good-night,'  and  he  took  in 
the  food  and  slammed  the  door,  same  as  usual." 

"Old  Philander  Sniff "  began  Noreen's  chant  as  she 

slipped  from  her  chair  intent  upon  a  doll  by  the  hearthside. 

Mary-Clare  took  no  notice  of  her  but  nodded  to  Jan-an. 

"And  then,"  the  girl  went  on,  "I  went  in  to  Peneluna  and 
told  her  and  then  we  et  and  went  to  bed.  Long  about  mid- 
night, I  guess,  there  was  a  yell!"  Jan-an  lost  her  breath  and 
paused,  then  rushed  along:  "He'd  raised  his  winder  and 
after  all  the  keeping  still,  he  called  for  Peneluna  to  come." 

Mary-Clare  visualized  the  dramatic  scene  that  poor  Jan-an 
was  mumbling  monotonously. 

"And  she  went!  I  just  lay  there  scared  stiff  hearing  things 
an'  seeing  'em!  Come  morning,  in  walked  Peneluna  looking 
still  and  high  and  she  didn't  say  nothing  till  she'd  gone  and 


76  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

fetched  those  togs  of  hers,  black  'tins,  you  know,  that  Aunt 
Polly  gave  her  long  back.  She  put  'em  on,  bonnet  and  veil 
an'  everything.  Then  she  took  an  old  red  rose  out  of  a  box 
and  pinned  it  on  the  front  of  her  bonnet — God!  but  she  did 
look  skeery — and  then  said  to  me  awful  careful,  'Trot  on  to 
Mary-Clare,  tell  her  to  fotch  the  marriage  service  and  the 
funeral  one,  both!'  Jes'  like  that  she  said  it.  Both!" 

"This  is  very  strange,"  Mary-Clare  said  slowly  and  got  up. 
"I'm  going  to  the  Point,  Jan-an,  and  you  will  take  Noreen 
to  the  inn,  like  a  good  girl.  I'll  call  for  her  in  the  after- 
noon." 

"Take  both!"  Jan-an  was  nodding  her  willingness  to  obey. 
And  Mary-Clare  took  her  prayer-book  with  her. 

Mary-Clare  had  the  quiet  Forest  to  herself  apparently,  for 
on  the  way  to  the  Point  she  met  no  one.  On  ahead  she 
traced,  she  believed,  Larry's  footprints,  but  when  she  turned 
on  the  trail  to  the  Point,  they  were  not  there. 

All  along  her  way  Mary-Clare  went  over  in  her  thought  the 
story  of  Philander  Sniff  and  Peneluna.  It  was  the  romance 
and  mystery  of  the  sordid  Point. 

Years  before,  when  Mary-Clare  was  a  little  child,  Philander 
had  drifted,  from  no  one  knew  where,  to  the  mines  and  the 
Point.  He  lived  in  one  of  the  ramshackle  huts;  gave  promise 
of  paying  for  it,  did,  in  fact,  pay  a  few  dollars  to  old  Doctor 
Rivers,  and  then  became  a  squatter.  He  was  injured  at  the 
mines  and  could  do  no  more  work  and  at  that  juncture  Pene- 
luna had  arrived  upon  the  scene  from  the  same  unknown 
quarter  apparently  whence  Philander  had  hailed.  She  took 
the  empty  cottage  next  Philander's  and  paid  for  it  by  service 
in  Doctor  Rivers's  home.  She  was  clean,  thrifty,  and  strangely 
silent.  When  Philander  first  beheld  her  he  was  shaken, 
for  a  moment,  out  of  his  glum  silence.  "God  Almighty!" 
he  confided  to  Twombly  who  had  worked  in  the  mines  with 
him  and  had  looked  after  him  in  his  illness;  "yer  can't  shake 
some  women  even  when  it's  for  their  good." 

That  was  all.  Through  the  following  years  the  two  shacks 
became  the  only  clean  and  orderly  ones  on  the  Point.  When 
Philander  hobbled  from  his  quarters,  Peneluna  went  in  and 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  77 

scrubbed  and  scoured.  After  a  time  she  cooked  for  the  old 
man  and  left  the  food  on  his  back  steps.  He  took  it  in,  ate  it, 
and  had  the  grace  to  wash  the  dishes  before  setting  them 
back. 

"Some  mightn't,"  poor  Peneluna  had  said  to  Aunt  Polly 
in  defence  of  Sniff. 

As  far  as  any  one  knew  the  crabbed  old  man  never  spoke 
to  his  devoted  neighbour,  but  she  had  never  complained. 

"  I  wonder  what  happened  before  they  came  here  ? "  After 
all  the  years  of  taking  the  strange  condition  for  granted, 
it  sprang  into  quickened  life.  Mary-Clare  was  soon  to 
know  and  it  had  a  bearing  upon  her  own  highly  sensitive 
state. 

She  made  her  way  to  the  far  end  of  the  Point,  passing  wide- 
eyed  children  at  play  and  curious  women  in  doorways. 

"Philander's  dead!"  The  words  were  like  an  accompani- 
ment, passing  from  lip  to  lip.  "An'  she  won't  let  a  soul  in." 
This  was  added. 

"She  will  presently,"  Mary-Clare  reassured  them.  "She'll 
need  you  all,  later." 

There  was  a  little  plot  of  grass  between  Peneluna's  shack 
and  Philander's  and  a  few  scraggy  autumn  flowers  edged  a 
well-worn  path  from  one  back  door  to  the  other! 

At  Philander's  front  door  Mary-Clare  knocked  and  Pene- 
luna responded  at  once.  She  was  dressed  as  Jan-an  had 
described,  and  for  a  moment  Mary-Clare  had  difficulty  in 
stifling  her  inclination  to  laugh. 

The  gaunt  old  woman  was  in  the  rusty  black  she  had  kept 
in  readiness  for  years;  she  wore  gloves  and  bonnet;  the  long 
crepe  veil  and  the  absurd  red  rose  wobbled  dejectedly  as 
Peneluna  moved  about. 

"Come  in,  child,  and  shut  the  world  out."  Then,  leading 
the  way  to  an  inner  room,  "Have  yer  got  both  services?" 

"Yes,  Peneluna."     Then  Mary-Clare  started  back. 

She  was  in  the  presence  of  the  dead.  He  lay  rigid  and 
carefully  prepared  for  burial  on  the  narrow  bed.  He  looked 
decent,  at  peace,  and  with  that  unearthly  dignity  that  death 
often  offers  as  its  first  gift. 


78  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Peneluna  drew  two  chairs  close  to  the  bed;  waved  Mary- 
Clare  majestically  to  one  and  took  the  other  herself.  She 
was  going  to  lay  her  secrets  before  the  one  she  had  chosen — 
after  that  the  shut-out  world  might  have  its  turn. 

"I've  sent  word  over  to  the  Post  Office,"  Peneluna  began, 
"and  they're  going  to  get  folks,  the  doctor  and  minister  and 
the  rest.  Before  they  get  here — "  Peneluna  paused — "be- 
fore they  get  here  I  want  that  you  should  act  for  the  old 
doctor." 

This  was  the  one  thing  needed  to  rouse  Mary-Clare. 

"I'll  do  my  best,  Peneluna,"  she  whispered,  and  clutched 
the  prayer-book. 

"The  ole  doctor,  he  knew  'bout  Philander  and  me.  He 
said" — Peneluna  caught  her  breath — "he  said  once  as  how 
it  was  women  like  me  that  kept  men  believing.  He  said  I 
had  a  right  to  hold  my  tongue — he  held  his'n." 

Mary-Clare  nodded.  Not  even  she  could  ever  estimate  the 
secret  load  of  confessions  her  beloved  foster-father  bore  and 
covered  with  his  rare  smile. 

"Mary-Clare,  I  want  yer  should  read  the  marriage  service 
over  me  and  him!"  Peneluna  gravely  nodded  to  her  silent 
dead.  "I  got  this  to  say:  If  Philander  ain't  too  far  on  his 
journey,  I  guess  he'll  look  back  and  understand  and  then  he 
can  go  on  more  cheerful-like  and  easy.  Last  night  he  hadn't 
more  than  time  to  say  a  few  things,  but  they  cleared  every- 
thing, and  if  I'm  his  wife,  he  can  trust  me — a  wife  wouldn't 
harm  a  dead  husband  when  she  might  the  man  who  jilted  her." 
The  words  came  through  a  hard,  dry  sob.  Mary-Clare  felt 
her  eyes  fill  with  hot  tears.  She  looked  out  through  the  one 
open  window  and  felt  the  warm  autumn  breeze  against  her 
cheek;  a  bit  of  sunlight  slanted  across  the  room  and  lay 
brightly  on  the  quiet  man  upon  the  bed.  "Read  on,  Mary- 
Clare,  and  then  I  can  speak  out." 

Opening  the  book  with  stiff,  cold  fingers,  Mary-Clare  read 
softly,  brokenly,  the  solemn  words. 

At  the  close  Peneluna  stood  up. 

"Him  and  me,  Mary-Clare,"  she  said,  "  'fore  God  and  you 
is  husband  and  wife."  Then  she  removed  the  red  rose  from 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  79 

her  bonnet,  laid  it  upon  the  folded  wrinkled  hands  of  the 
dead  man  and  drew  the  sheet  over  him. 

Just  then,  outside  the  window,  a  bird  flew  past,  peeped  in, 
fluttered  away,  singing. 

"Seems  like  it  might  be  the  soul  of  Philander,"  Peneluna 
said — she  was  crying  as  the  old  do,  hardly  realizing  that  they 
are  crying.  Her  tears  fell  unheeded  and  Mary-Clare  was 
crying  with  her,  but  conscious  of  every  hurting  tear. 

"In  honour  bound,  though  it  breaks  the  heart  of  me,  I'm 
going  to  speak,  Mary-Clare,  then  his  poor  soul  can  rest  in 
peace. 

"The  Methodist  parson,  what  comes  teetering  'round  just 
so  often,  always  thought  Philander  was  hell-bound,  Mary- 
Clare;  well,  since  there  ain't  anyone  but  that  parson  as  knows 
so  much  about  hell,  to  send  for,  I've  sent  for  him  and  there's 
no  knowing  what  he  won't  feel  called  upon  to  say  with  Philan- 
der lying  helpless  for  a  text.  So  now,  after  I  tell  you  what 
must  be  told,  I  want  that  you  should  read  the  burial  service 
over  Philander  and  then  that  parson  can  do  his  worst — my 
ears  will  be  deaf  to  him  and  Philander  can't  hear." 

There  was  a  heavy  pause  while  Mary-Clare  waited. 

"Hell  don't  scare  me  nohow,"  Peneluna  went  on;  "seems 
like  the  most  interesting  folks  is  headed  for  it  and  I'll  take 
good  company  every  time  to  what  some  church  folks  hands 
out.  And,  too,  hell  can't  be  half  bad  if  you  have  them  you 
love  with  you.  So  the  parson  can  do  his  worst.  Philander 
and  me  won't  mind  now. 

"Back  of  the  time  we  came  here" — Peneluna  was  picking 
her  words  as  a  child  does  its  blocks,  carefully  in  order  to  form 
the  right  word — "me  and  Philander  was  promised." 

Drifting  about  in  Mary-Clare's  thought  a  scrap  of  old  scan- 
dal stirred,  but  it  had  little  to  feed  on  and  passed. 

"Then  a  woman  got  mixed  up  'twixt  him  and  me.  In  her 
young  days  she'd  been  French  and  you  know  yer  can't  get 
away  from  what's  born  in  the  blood,  and  the  Frenchiness  was 
terrible  onsettling.  Philander  was  side-twisted.  Yer  see, 
Mary-Clare,  when  a  man  ain't  had  nothing  but  work  and 
working  folks  in  his  life,  a  creature  that  laughs  and  dances 


8o  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

and  sings  gets  like  whiskey  in  the  head,  and  Philander  didn't 
rightfully  know  what  he  was  about." 

Peneluna  drew  the  end  of  her  crepe  veil  up  and  wiped  her 
eyes. 

"They  went  off  together,  him  and  the  furriner.  Least,  the 
furriner  took  him  off,  and  the  next  thing  I  heard  she'd  taken 
to  her  heels  and  Philander  drifted  here  to  the  mines.  I  knew 
he  needed  me  more  than  ever — he  was  a  dreadful  creature 
about  doing  for  himself,  not  eating  at  Christian  hours,  just 
waiting  till  he  keeled  over  from  emptiness,  so  I  came  logging 
along  after  him  and — stayed.  He  was  considerable  upset 
when  he  saw  me  and  he  never  got  to,  what  you  might  say, 
speaking  to  me,  but  he  was  near  and  he  ate  the  food  I  left  on 
his  steps  and  he  washed  the  plates  and  cups  and  that  meant 
a  lot  to  Philander.  If  I'd  been  his  proper  wife  he  wouldn't 
have  washed  'em.  Men  don't  when  they  get  used  to  a 
woman. 

"And  then" — here  Peneluna  caught  her  breath — "then 
last  night  he  called  from  his  winder  and  I  came.  He  said, 
holding  my  hand  like  it  was  the  last  thing  left  for  him  to  hold: 
'I  didn't  think  I  had  a  right  to  you,  Pen' — he  used  to  call  me 
Pen — '  after  what  I  did.  And  I've  just  paid  for  my  evil-doing 
up  to  the  end,  not  taking  comfort  and  forgiveness — just 
paying!'  I  never  let  on,  Mary-Clare,  how  I'd  paid,  too. 
Men  folks  are  blind-spotted,  we've  got  to  take  'em  as  they  are. 
Philander  thought  he  had  worked  out  his  soul's  salvation 
while  he  was  starving  me,  soul  and  body,  but  I  never  let  on 
and  he  died  smiling  and  saying,  'The  food  was  terrible  stay- 
ing, Pen,  terrible  staying.'" 

Mary-Clare  could  see  mistily  the  long,  rigid  figure  on  the 
bed,  her  eyes  ached  with  unshed  tears;  her  heart  throbbed 
like  a  heavy  pain.  Here  was  something  she  had  never  under- 
stood; a  thing  so  real  and  strong  that  no  earthly  touch  could 
kill  it.  What  was  it? 

But  Peneluna  was  talking  on,  her  poor  old  face  twitching. 

"And  now,  Mary-Clare,  him  and  me  is  man  and  wife  before 
God  and  you.  You  are  terrible  understanding,  child.  With 
all  the  fol-de-rol  the  old  doctor  laid  on  yer,  he  laid  his  own 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  81 

spirit  of  knowing  things  on  yer,  too.  Suffering  learns  folks 
the  understanding  power.  I  reckon  the  old  doctor  had  had 
his  share  'fore  he  came  to  the  Forest — but  how  you  got  to 
knowing  things,  child,  and  being  tender  and  patient,  'stead 
of  hot  and  full  of  hate,  I  don't  know!  Now  read,  soft  and  low, 
so  only  us  three  can  hear — the  last  service." 

Solemnly,  with  sweet  intonations,  Mary-Clare  read  on  and 
on.  Again  the  bird  came  to  the  window  ledge,  looked  in,  and 
then  flew  off  singing  jubilantly.  Peneluna  smiled  a  fleeting 
wintry  smile  and  closed  her  eyes;  she  seemed  to  be  following 
the  bird — or  was  it  old  Philander's  soul? 

When  the  service  came  to  an  end,  Peneluna  arose  and  with 
grave  dignity  walked  from  the  room,  Mary-Clare  following. 

"Now  the  Pointers  can  have  their  way  'cording  to  rule, 
Mary-Clare,"  she  whispered,  "but  you  and  me  understand, 
child.  And  listen  to  this,  I  ain't  much  of  a  muchness,  but 
come  thick  or  thin,  Mary-Clare,  I'll  do  my  first  and  last  for 
you  'cause  of  the  secret  lying  'twixt  us." 

Then  Mary-Clare  asked  the  question  that  was  hurting  her 
with  its  weight. 

"Peneluna,  was  it  love,  the  thing  that  made  you  glad, 
through  it  all,  just  to  wait?" 

"I  don't  rightly  know,  Mary-Clare.  It  was  something 
too  big  for  me  to  call  by  name,  but  I  just  couldn't  act  different 
and  kill  it,  not  even  when  her  as  once  was  French  made  me 
feel  I  oughter.  I  wouldn't  darst  harm  that  feeling  I  had, 
child." 

"And  it  paid?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  only  know  I  was  glad,  when  he  called 
last  night,  that  I  was  waiting." 

Then  Mary-Clare  raised  her  face  and  kissed  the  old,  trou- 
bled, fumbling  lips.  The  thing,  too  big  for  the  woman,  was 
too  big  for  the  girl;  but  she  knew,  whatever  it  was,  it  must 
not  be  hurt. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  she  asked. 

"God  knows,  Mary-Clare.  The  old  doctor  gave  this  place 
to  Philander,  and  he  gave  me  mine,  next  door.  I  think,  till 
I  get  my  leadings,  I'll  hold  to  this  and  see  what  the  Lord 


82  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

wants  me  to  do  with  my  old  shack.  I  alias  find  someone 
waiting  to  share.  Maybe  Jan-an  will  grow  to  fit  in  there  in 
time.  When  she  gets  old  and  helpless  she'll  need  some  place 
to  crawl  to  and  call  her  own.  I  don't  know,  but  I'm  a  power- 
ful waiter  and  I'll  keep  an  eye  and  ear  open." 

On  the  walk  home  Mary-Clare  grew  deeply  thoughtful. 
The  recent  scene  took  on  enormous  significance.  Detached 
from  the  pitiful  setting,  disassociated  from  the  two  forlorn 
creatures  who  were  the  actors  in  the  tragic  story,  there  rose, 
like  a  bright  and  living  flame,  a  something  that  the  girl's 
imagination  caught  and  held. 

That  something  was  quite  apart  from  laws  and  codes; 
it  came;  could  not  be  commanded.  It  was  something  that 
marriage  could  not  give,  nor  death  kill.  Something  that 
could  exist  on  the  Point.  Something  that  couldn't  be  got 
out  of  one's  heart,  once  it  had  entered  in.  What  was  it? 
It  wasn't  duty  or  just  living  on.  It  was  something  too  big 
to  name.  Why  was  the  wonder  of  it  crowding  all  else  out 
— after  the  long  years  ? 

Mary-Clare  left  the  Point  behind  her.  She  entered  the 
sweet  autumn-tinted  woods  beyond  which  lay  her  home. 
She  hoped — oh!  yearningly  she  hoped — that  Larry  would  not 
be  there,  not  just  yet.  She  would  go  for  Noreen;she  would 
stay  awhile  with  Aunt  Polly  and  tell  her  about  what  had  just 
occurred — the  service,  but  not  the  secret  thing. 

Suddenly  she  stood  still  and  her  face  shone  in  the  dim 
woods.  Just  ahead  and  around  a  curve,  she  heard  Noreen's 
voice.  But  was  it  Noreen's? 

Often,  in  her  wondering  moments,  Mary-Clare  had  pictured 
her  little  girl  as  she  longed  for  her  to  be — a  glad,  unthinking 
creature,  such  as  Mary-Clare  herself  had  once  been,  a  singing, 
laughing  child.  And  now,  just  out  of  sight,  Noreen  was 
singing. 

There  was  a  rich  gurgle  in  the  flute-like  voice;  it  came 
floating  along. 

"Oh!  tell  it  again,  please!  I  want  to  learn  it  for  Motherly. 
It  is  awfully  funny — and  make  the  funny  face  that  goes  with 
it — the  crinkly -up  face." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  83 

"All  right.     Here  goes! 

"Up  the  airy  mountain, 
Down  the  rustly  glen — 

that's  the  way,  Noreen,  scuffle  your  feet  in  the  leaves — 

"We  daren't  go  a-hunting 
For  fear  of  little  men. 
Wee  folk,  good  folk 
Trooping  all  together, 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 
And  white  owl's  feather — 

Here,  you,  Noreen,  play  fair;  scuffle  and  keep  step,  you  little 
beggar!" 

"But  I  may  step  on  the  wee  men,  the  good  men,"  again 
the  rich  chuckle. 

"No,  you  won't  if  you  scuffle  and  then  step  high;  they'll  slip 
between  your  feet." 

Then  came  the  tramp,  tramp  of  the  oncoming  pair.  Big 
feet,  little  feet.  Long  strides  and  short  hops. 

So  they  came  in  view  around  the  turn  of  the  rough  road — 
Northrup  with  Noreen  holding  his  hand  and  trying  to  keep 
step  to  the  swinging  words  of  the  old  song. 

And  Northrup  saw  Mary-Clare,  saw  her  with  a  slanting 
sunbeam  on  her  radiant  face.  The  romance  of  Hunter's 
Point  was  in  her  soul,  and  the  wonder  of  her  child's  happiness. 
She  stood  and  smiled  that  strange,  unforgettable  smile  of 
hers;  the  smile  that  had  its  birth  in  unshed  tears. 

Northrup  hurried  toward  her,  taking  in,  as  he  came,  her 
loveliness  that  could  not  be  detracted  from  by  her  mud- 
stained  and  rough  clothing.  The  feeling  of  knowing  her  was 
in  his  mind;  she  seemed  vividly  familiar. 

"Your  little  daughter  got  homesick,  or  mother-sick,  Mrs. 
Rivers"  — Northrup  took  off  his  hat — "Aunt  Polly  gave 
me  the  privilege  of  bringing  her  to  you.  We  became  friends 
from  the  moment  we  met.  We've  been  making  great  strides 
all  dar  - 


84  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"Thank  you,  Mr. " 

"Northrup." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Northrup.  You  have  made  Noreen 
very  happy — and  she  does  not  make  friends  easily." 

"  But,  Motherly,"  Noreen  was  flushed  and  eager.  "  He  isn't 
a  friend.  Jan-an  told  me  all  about  him.  He's  something 
the  wild-wind  brought.  You  are,  aren't  you,  Mr.  Sir?" 

Northrup  laughed. 

"Well,  something  like  that,"  he  admitted.  "May  I  walk 
along  with  you,  Mrs.  Rivers?  Unless  I  go  around  the  lake, 
I  must  turn  back." 

And  so  they  walked  on,  Noreen  darting  here  and  there 
quite  unlike  her  staid  little  self,  and  they  talked  of  many 
things — neither  could  have  told  after  just  what  they  talked 
about.  The  conversation  was  like  a  stream  carrying  them 
along  to  a  definite  point  ordained  for  them  to  reach,  some- 
where, some  time,  on  beyond. 

"How  on  earth  could  she  manage  to  be  what  she  is?" 
pondered  Northrup.  "She's  read  and  thought  to  some  pur- 
pose." 

"What  does  he  mean  by  being  here?"  pondered  Mary- 
Clare.  "This  isn't  just  a  happening." 

But  they  chatted  pleasantly  while  they  pondered. 

When  they  came  near  to  the  yellow  house,  Noreen,  who 
was  ahead,  came  running  back.  All  the  joyousness  had  fled 
from  her  face.  She  looked  heavy-eyed  and  dull. 

"She's  tired,"  murmured  Mary-Clare,  but  she  knew  that 
that  was  not  what  ailed  Noreen. 

And  then  she  looked  toward  her  house.  Larry  stood  in  the 
doorway,  smoking  and  smiling. 

"Will  you  come  and  meet  my  husband?"  she  asked  of 
Northrup. 

"I'll  put  off  the  pleasure,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  Mrs.  Rivers. 
I  have  learned  that  one  cannot  tamper  with  Aunt  Polly's 
raised  biscuits.  It's  late,  but  may  I  call  to-morrow?" 
Northrup  stood  bareheaded  while  he  spoke. 

Mary-Clare  nodded.  She  was  mutely  thankful  when  he 
strode  on  ahead  and  toward  the  lake. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  85 

It  was  while  they  were  eating  their  evening  meal  that 
Larry  remarked  casually: 

"So  that's  the  Northrup  fellow,  is  it?"  Mary-Clare 
flushed  and  had  a  sensation  of  being  lassoed  by  an  invisible 
hand. 

"Yes.  He  is  staying  at  the  inn — I  sent  Noreen  there  this 
morning  while  I  went  over  to  the  Point;  he  was  bringing 
her  home." 

"He  seemed  to  know  that  you  weren't  home." 

"Children  come  in  handy,"  Larry  smiled  pleasantly. 
"More  potato,  Mary-Clare?" 

"No."  Then,  almost  defiantly:  "Larry,  Mr.  Northrup 
asked  his  way  to  the  inn  the  day  he  was  travelling  through. 
I  have  never  spoken  to  him  since,  until  to-day.  When  he 
found  the  house  empty  this  afternoon,  he  naturally " 

"Why  the  explanation?"  Larry  looked  blank  and  again 
Mary-Clare  flushed. 

"I  felt  one  was  needed." 

"  I  can't  see  why.  By  the  way,  Mary-Clare,  those  squat- 
ters at  the  Point  are  going  to  get  a  rough  deal.  Either  they're 
going  to  pay  regular,  or  be  kicked  out.  I  tell  you  when 
Tim  Maclin  sets  his  jaw,  there  is  going  to  be  something  do- 
ing." 

This  was  unfortunate,  but  Larry  was  ill  at  ease. 

"Maclin  doesn't  own  the  Point,  Larry." 

"You  better  listen  to  Maclin  and  not  Peter  Heathcote." 
Larry  retraced  his  steps.  His  doubt  of  Northrup  had  led 
him  astray. 

Mary-Clare  gave  him  a  startled  look. 

"Maclin's  a  brute,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  prefer  to  listen 
to  my  friends." 

"Maclin's  our  friend.  Yours  and  mine.  You'll  learn  that 
some  day." 

"I  doubt  it,  Larry,  but  he's  your  employer  and  I  do  not 
forget  that." 

"  I  wouldn't.  And  you're  going  to  change  your  mind  some 
fine  day,  my  girl,  about  a  lot  of  things." 

"Perhaps." 


86  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"I'm  sleeping  outside,  Mary-Clare."  Larry  rose  lazily. 
"I  just  dropped  in  to — to  call."  He  laughed  unpleasantly. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Larry,  that  you  feel  as  you  do." 

"Like  hell  you  are!"  The  words  were  barely  audible. 
"I'm  going  to  give  you  a  free  hand,  Mary-Clare,  but  I'm 
going  to  let  folks  see  your  game.  That's  square  enough." 

"All  right,  Larry."  Mary-Clare's  eyes  flickered.  Then: 
"Why  did  you  take  those  letters?" 

Larry  looked  blankly  at  her. 

"I  haven't  taken  any  letters.  What  you  hoaxing  up?" 
He  waited  a  moment  but  when  Mary-Clare  made  no  reply  he 
stalked  from  the  house  angrily  and  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MACLIN  rarely  discussed  Larry's  private  affairs  with 
him,  but  he  controlled  them,  nevertheless,  indirectly. 
His  hold  on  Larry  was  subtle  and  far-reaching.  It 
had  its  beginning  in  the  old  college  days  when  the  older  man 
discovered  that  the  younger  could  be  manipulated,  by  flattery 
and  cheap  tricks,  into  abject  servitude.  Larry  was  not  as 
keen-witted  as  Maclin,  but  he  had  a  superficial  cleverness;  a 
lack  of  moral  fibre  and  a  certain  talent  that,  properly  con- 
trolled, offered  no  end  of  possibility. 

So  Maclin  affixed  himself  to  young  Rivers  in  the  days  be- 
fore the  doctor's  death;  he  and  Larry  had  often  drifted  apart 
but  came  together  again  like  steel  responding  to  the  same 
magnet.  While  apparently  intimate  with  Rivers,  Maclin 
never  permitted  him  to  pass  a  given  line,  and  this  restriction 
often  chafed  Larry's  pride  and  egotism;  still,  he  dared  not 
rebel,  for  there  were  things  in  his  past  that  had  best  be  for- 
gotten, or  at  least  not  referred  to. 

When  Maclin  had  discovered  the  old,  deserted  mines  and 
bought  them,  apparently  Larry  was  included  in  the  sale. 
Maclin  sought  to  be  friendly  with  Mary-Clare  when  he  first 
came  to  King's  Forest;  but  failing  in  that  direction,  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  made  light  of  the  matter.  He 
never  pushed  his  advantage  nor  forgave  a  slight. 

"Never  force  a  woman,"  he  confided  to  Larry  at  that 
juncture,  "that  is,  if  she  is  independent." 

"What  you  mean,  independent?"  Larry  knew  what  he 
meant  very  well;  knew  the  full  significance  of  it.  He  fretted 
at  it  every  time  his  desires  clashed  with  Mary-Clare's.  If  he, 
not  she,  owned  the  yellow  house;  if  she  were  obliged  to  take 
what  he  chose  to  give  her,  how  different  their  lives  might  have 
been! 


88  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Larry  was  thinking  of  all  this  as  he  made  his  way  to  the 
mines  after  denying  that  he  had  taken  the  letters.  Those 
letters  lay  snugly  hid  under  his  shirt — he  had  a  use  for  them. 
He  could  feel  them  as  he  walked  along;  they  seemed  to  be 
feeding  a  fire  that  was  slowly  igniting. 

Larry  was  going  now  to  Maclin  with  all  barriers  removed. 
His  suspicious  mind  had  accepted  the  coarsest  interpretation 
of  Mary-Clare's  declaration  of  independence.  Maclin's  hints 
were,  to  him,  established  facts.  There  could  be  but  one 
possible  explanation  for  her  act  after  long,  dull  years  of  ac- 
ceptance. 

"Well,"  Larry  puffed  and  panted,  "there  is  always  a  way 
to  get  the  upper  hand  of  a  woman  and,  I  reckon,  Maclin, 
when  he's  free  to  speak  out,  can  catch  a  fool  woman  and  a 
sneaking  man,  who  is  on  no  fair  business,  unless  I  miss  my 
guess."  Larry  grunted  the  words  out  and  stumbled  along. 
"First  and  last,"  he  went  on,  "there's  just  two  ways  to  deal 
with  women.  Break  'em  or  let  them  break  themselves." 

Larry's  idea  now  was  to  let  Mary-Clare  break  herself  with 
the  Forest  as  audience.  He  wasn't  going  to  do  anything. 
No,  not  he!  Living  outside  his  home  would  set  tongues 
wagging.  All  right,  let  Mary-Clare  stop  their  wagging. 

There  was  always,  with  Larry,  this  feeling  of  hot  impotence 
when  he  retreated  from  Mary-Clare.  For  so  vital  and  high- 
strung  a  woman,  Mary-Clare  could  at  critical  moments  be 
absolutely  negative,  to  all  appearances.  Where  another 
might  show  weakness  or  violence,  she  seemed  to  close  all  the 
windows  and  doors  of  her  being,  leaving  her  attacker  in  the 
outer  darkness  with  nothing  to  strike  at;  no  ear  to  assail. 
It  was  maddening  to  one  of  Larry's  type. 

So  had  Mary-Clare  just  now  done.  After  asking  him  about 
the  letters,  she  had  withdrawn,  but  in  the  isolation  where 
Larry  was  left  he  could  almost  hear  the  terrific  truths  he 
guiltily  knew  he  deserved,  hurled  at  him,  but  which  his  wife 
did  not  utter.  Well,  two  could  play  at  her  game. 

And  in  this  mood  he  reached  Maclin;  accepted  a  cigar  and 
stretched  his  feet  toward  the  fire  in  his  owner's  office. 

Maclin  was  in   a  humanly   soothing   mood.     He   fairly 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  89 

crooned  over  Larry  and  could  tell  to  a  nicety  the  workings  of 
his  mind. 

He  puffed  and  puffed  at  his  enormous  cigar;  he  was  almost 
hidden  from  sight  in  the  smoke  but  his  words  oozed  forth  as 
if  they  were  cutting  through  a  soft,  thick  substance. 

"Now,  Larry,"  he  said;  "don't  make  a  mistake.  Some 
women  don't  have  weak  spots,  they  have  knots — weak  ends 
tied  together,  so  to  speak.  The  cold,  calculating  breed — 
and  your  wife,  no  offence  intended,  is  mighty  chilly — can't 
be  broken,  as  you  intimate,  but  they  can  be  untied  and" — 
Maclin  was  pleased  with  his  picturesque  figures  of  speech 
• — "left  dangling." 

This  was  amusing.     Both  men  guffawed. 

"Do  you  know,  Rivers" — Maclin  suddenly  relapsed  into 
seriousness — "it  was  a  darned  funny  thing  that  a  girl  like  your 
wife  should  fall  into  your  open  mouth,  marry  you  off-hand, 
as  one  might  say.  Mighty  funny,  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it,  that  your  old  man  should  let  her — knowing  all  he  knew 
and  seeming  to  set  such  a  store  by  the  girl." 

Larry  winced  and  felt  the  lash  on  his  back.  So  long  had 
that  lash  hung  unused  that  the  stroke  now  made  him  cringe. 

"No  use  harking  back  to  that,  Maclin,"  he  said:  "some 
things  ain't  common  property,  you  know,  even  between  you 
and  me.  We  agreed  to  that." 

"Yes?"  the  word  came  softly.  Was  it  apologetic  or 
threatening? 

There  was  a  pause.     Then  Maclin  unbent. 

"Larry,"  he  began,  tossing  his  cigar  aside,  "you  haven't 
ever  given  me  full  credit,  my  boy,  for  what  I've  tried  to  do  for 
you.  See  here,  old  man,  I  have  got  you  out  of  more  than  one 
fix,  haven't  I?" 

Larry  looked  back — the  way  was  not  a  pleasant  one. 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  "yes,  you  have,  Maclin." 

"I  know  you  often  get  fussed,  Rivers,  about  what  you  term 
my  using  you  in  business,  but  I  swear  to  you  that  in  the  end 
you'll  think  different  about  that.  I've  got  to  work  under 
cover  myself  to  a  certain  extent.  I'm  not  my  own  master. 
But  this  I  can  say — I'm  willing  to  be  a  part  of  a  big  thing. 


90  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

When  the  public  is  taken  into  our  confidence,  we'll  all  feel 
repaid.     Can  you — do  you  catch  on,  Larry?" 

"It's  like  catching  on  to  something  in  the  dark,"  Larry 
muttered. 

"  Well,  that's  something,"  Maclin  said  cheerfully.  "  Some- 
thing to  hold  to  in  the  dark  isn't  to  be  sneered  at." 

"Depends  upon  what  it  is!"  Apparently  Larry  was  in  a 
difficult  mood.  Maclin  tried  a  new  course. 

"It's  one  thing  having  a  friend  in  the  dark,  old  man,  and 
another  having  an  enemy.  I  suppose  that's  what  you  mean. 
Well,  have  I  been  much  of  an  enemy  to  you?" 

"I  just  told  you  what  I  think  about  that."  Larry  mis- 
interpreted Maclin's  manner  and  took  advantage. 

"Larry,  I'm  going  to  give  you  something  to  chew  on  be- 
cause I  am  your  friend  and  because  I  want  you  to  trust  me, 
even  in  the  dark.  The  fellow  Northrup 

Larry  started  as  if  an  electric  spark  had  touched  him. 
Maclin  appeared  not  to  notice. 

— is  on  our  tracks,  but  he  mustn't  suspect  that  we  have 
sensed  it."  The  words  were  ill-chosen.  Having  any  one  on. 
his  tracks  was  a  significant  phrase  that  left  an  ugly  fear  in 
Larry's  mind. 

"What  tracks?"  he  asked  suspiciously. 

"Our  inventions."  Maclin  showed  no  nervous  dread. 
"These  inventions,  big  as  they  are,  old  man,  are  devilish 
simple.  That's  why  we  have  to  lie  low.  Any  really  keen 
chap  with  the  right  slant  could  steal  them  from  upder  our 
noses.  That's  why  I  like  to  get  foreigners  in  here — these 
Dutchies  don't  smell  around.  Give  them  work  to  do,  and 
they  do  it  and  ask  no  questions;  the  others  snoop.  Now  this 
Northrup  is  here  for  a  purpose." 

"You  know  that  for  a  fact,  Maclin?" 

"Sure,  I  know  it."  Maclin  was  a  man  who  believed  in 
holding  all  the  cards  and  discarding  at  his  leisure;  he  always 
played  a  slow  game.  "I  know  his  kind,  but  I'm  going  to  let 
him  hang  himself.  Now  see  here,  Rivers,  you  better  take  me 
into  your  confidence — I  may  be  able  to  fix  you  up.  What's 
wrong  between  you  and  your  wife?" 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  91 

This  plunge  sent  Larry  to  the  wall.  When  a  slow  man 
does  make  a  drive,  he  does  deadly  work. 

"Well,  then" — Larry  looked  sullen — "I've  left  the  house 
and  mean  to  stay  out  until  Mary-Clare  comes  to  her 
senses!" 

"All  right,  old  man.  I  rather  smelled  this  out.  I  only 
wanted  to  make  sure.  It's  this  Northrup,  eh  ?  Now,  Rivers, 
I -could  send  you  off  on  a  trip  but  it  would  be  the  same  old 
story.  I  hate  to  kick  you  when  you're  down,  but  I  will  say 
this,  your  wife  doesn't  look  like  one  mourning  without  hope 
when  you're  away,  and  with  this  Northrup  chap  on  the  spot, 
needing  entertainment  while  he  works  his  game,  I'm  thinking 
you  better  stay  right  where  you  are!  You  can,  maybe,  untie 
:he  knot,  old  chap.  Give  her  and  this  Northrup  all  the 
chance  they  want,  and  if  you  leave  'em  alone,  I  guess  the 
Forest  will  smoke  'em  out." 

Maclin  came  nearer  to  being  jubilant  than  Rivers  had  ever 
seen  him.  The  sight  was  heartening,  but  still  something  in 
Larry  tempered  his  enthusiasm.  He  had  been  able,  in  the 
past,  to  exclude  Mary-Clare  from  the  inner  sanctuary  of 
Maclin's  private  ideals,  and  he  hated  now  to  betray  her  into 
his  clutches.  Maclin  was  devilishly  keen  under  that  slow, 
sluggish  manner  of  his  and  he  hastened,  now,  to  say: 

"Don't  get  a  wrong  slant  on  me,  old  man.  I'm  only  aim- 
ing for  the  good  of  us  all,  not  the  undoing.  I  want  to  show 
this  fellow  Northrup  up  to  your  wife  as  well  as  to  others. 
Then  she'll  know  her  friends  from  her  foes.  Naturally  a 
woman  feels  flattered  by  attentions  from  a  man  like  this 
stranger,  but  if  she  sees  how  he's  taken  the  Heathcotes  in  and 
how  he's  used  her  while  he  was  boring  underground,  she'll 
flare  up  and  know  the  meaning  of  real  friends.  Some  women 
have  to  be  shown  !" 

By  this  time  Larry  suspected  that  much  had  gone  on  during 
his  absence  that  Maclin  had  not  confided  to  him.  He  was 
thoroughly  aroused. 

"Now  see  here,  Rivers!"  Maclin  drew  his  chair  closer  and 
laid  his  hand  on  Larry's  arm — he  gloated  over  the  trouble  in 
the  eyes  holding  his  with  dumb  questioning.  "It's  coming 


92  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

out  all  right.  We're  in  early  and  we've  got  the  best  seats — 
only  keep  them  guessing;  guessing!  Larry,  your  wife  goes 
down  to  the  Point  a  lot — goes  missionarying,  you  know. 
Well,  this  Northrup  is  tramping  around  in  the  woods  skirting 
the  Point." 

Just  here  Larry  started  and  looked  as  if  something  definite 
had  come  to  him.  Had  he  not  seen  Northrup  that  very  day 
in  the  woods  ? 

"Now  there's  an  empty  shack  on  the  Point,  Rivers — some 
old  squatter  has  died.  I  want  you  to  get  that  shack  some- 
how or  another.  It  ought  to  be  easy,  since  they  say  your 
wife  owns  the  place;  it's  your  business  to  get  it  and  then  watch 
out  and  keep  your  mouth  shut.  You've  got  to  live  some- 
where while  you  can't  live  decent  at  home.  'Tisn't  likely 
your  wife,  having  slammed  the  door  of  her  home  on  you,  will 
oust  you  from  that  hovel  on  the  Point — your  being  there  will 
work  both  ways — she  won't  dare  to  take  a  step." 

Larry  drew  a  sigh,  a  heavy  one,  and  began  to  understand. 
He  saw  more  than  Maclin  could  see. 

"She  hasn't  turned  me  out,"  he  muttered.     "I  came  out." 

"  Let  her  explain  that,  Rivers.  See  ?  She  can't  do  it  while 
she's  gallivanting  with  this  here  Northrup." 

Larry  saw  the  possibilities  from  Maclin's  standpoint,  but 
he  saw  Mary-Clare's  smile  and  that  uplifted  head.  He  was 
overwhelmed  again  by  the  sense  of  impotence. 

"Give  a  woman  a  free  rein,  Rivers,  she'll  shy,  sooner  or 
later."  Maclin  was  gaining  assurance  as  he  saw  Larry's  dis- 
comfort. "That's  what  keeps  women  from  getting  on — they 
shy!  When  all's  said,  a  tight  rein  is  a  woman's  best  good, 
but  some  women  have  to  learn  that." 

Something  in  Larry  burned  hot  and  resentful,  but  whether 
it  was  because  of  Maclin  or  Mary-Clare  he  could  not  tell,  so 
he  kept  still. 

"Let's  turn  in,  anyway,  for  to-night,  old  boy."  Maclin's 
voice  sounded  paternal.  "To-morrow  is  to-morrow  and 
you'll  feel  able  to  tackle  the  job  after  a  night's  sleep." 

So  they  turned  in  and  it  was  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day 
when  Larry  took  his  walk  to  the  Point. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  93 

Just  as  he  started  forth  Maclin  gave  him  two  or  three 
suggestions. 

"  I'd  offer  to  hire  the  shanty,"  he  said.  "That  will  put  you 
in  a  safe  position,  no  matter  how  they  look  at  it.  An  old 
woman  by  the  name  of  Peneluna  thinks  she  owns  it.  There's 
an  old  codger  down  there,  too,  Twombley  they  call  him — he's 
smart  as  the  devil,  but  you  can't  tell  which  way  he  may  leap. 
Try  him  out.  Get  him  to  take  sides  with  you  if  you  can." 

"I  remember  Twombley,"  Larry  said.  "Dad  used  to  get 
a  lot  of  fun  out  of  him  in  the  old  days.  I  haven't  been  on  the 
Point  since  I  was  a  boy." 

"  It's  a  good  thing  you  never  troubled  the  Point,  Rivers. 
They'll  be  more  stirred  by  you  now." 

"Maybe  they'll  kick  me  out." 

"Never  fear!"  Maclin  reassured  him.  "Not  if  you  show 
good  money  and  play  up  to  your  old  dad.  He  had  everyone 
eating  out  of  his  hand,  all  right." 

So  Larry,  none  too  sure  of  himself,  but  more  cheerful  than 
he  had  been,  set  forth. 

Now  there  is  one  thing  about  the  poor,  wherever  you  find 
them — they  live  out  of  doors  when  the  weather  permits. 
Given  sunshine  and  soft  air,  they  promptly  turn  their  backs 
on  the  sordid  dens  they  call  home  and  take  to  the  open.  The 
day  that  Larry  went  to  the  Point  was  warm  and  lovely,  and 
all  the  Pointers,  or  nearly  all  of  them,  were  in  evidence. 

Jan-an  was  sweeping  the  steps  of  Peneluna's  doorway, 
sweeping  them  viciously,  sending  the  dust  flying.  She  was 
working  off  her  state  of  mind  produced  by  the  recent  funeral 
of  old  Philander.  She  was  spiritually  inarticulate,  but  her 
gropings  were  expressed  in  service  to  them  she  loved  and  in 
violence  to  them  she  hated.  As  she  swept  she  was  cleaning 
for  Peneluna,  and  at  the  same  time,  sweeping  to  the  winds  of 
heaven  the  memory  of  the  dreadful  minister  who  had  said 
such  fearsome  things  about  the  dead  who  couldn't  talk  back. 
The  man  had  made  Mary-Clare  cry  as  she  sat  holding  Pene- 
4una's  hard,  cold  hand.  Jan-an  knew  how  hard  and  cold  it 
was,  for  she  had  held  the  other  in  decent  sympathy. 

Among  the  tin  cans  and  ash  heaps  the  children  of  the 


94  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Point  were  playing.  One  inspired  girl  had  decked  a  mound 
of  wreckage  and  garbage  with  some  glittering  goldenrod  and 
was  calling  her  mates  to  come  and  see  the  "heaven"  she  had 
made. 

Larry  laughed  at  this  and  muttered:  "Made  it  in  hell,  eh, 
kid?" 

The  child  scowled  at  him. 

Twombley  was  sitting  in  his  doorway  watching  what  was 
going  on.  He  was  a  gaunt,  sharp-eyed,  sharp-nosed,  and 
sharp-tongued  man.  He  was  the  laziest  man  on  the  Point, 
but  with  all  the  ear-marks  of  the  cleverest. 

"Well,  Twombley,  how  are  you?" 

Twombley  spat  and  took  Larry  out  of  the  pigeonhole  of  his 
memory — labelled  and  priced;  Twombley  had  not  thought 
of  him  in  years,  as  a  definite  individual.  He  was  Mary- 
Clare's  husband;  a  drifter;  a  tool  of  Maclin.  As  such  he  was 
negligible. 

"  Feeling  same  as  I  look,"  he  said  at  last.  He  was  ready 
to  appraise  the  man  before  him. 

"Bad  nut,"  was  what  he  thought,  but  diluted  his  senti- 
ments because  of  the  relationship  to  the  old  doctor  and  Mary- 
Clare.  Twombley,  like  everyone  else,  had  a  shrine  in  his 
memory — rather  a  musty,  shabby  one,  to  be  sure,  but  it  held 
its  own  sacredly.  Doctor  Rivers  and  all  that  belonged  to 
him  were  safely  niched  there — even  this  son,  the  husband  of 
Mary-Clare  about  whom  the  Forest  held  its  tongue  because 
he  was  the  son  of  the  old  doctor. 

"Old  SnifFs  popped,  I  hear."  Larry,  now  that  he  chose  to 
be  friendly,  endeavoured  to  fit  his  language  to  his  hearer's 
level.  "Have  a  cigar,  Twombley?" 

"I'll  keep  to  my  pipe."  The  old  man's  face  was  expres- 
sionless. "If  you  don't  get  a  taste  for  what  you  can't  afford 
you  don't  ruin  it  for  what  you  can.  Yes,  looks  as  if  Sniff 
was  dead.  They've  buried  him,  at  any  rate." 

"Who's  got  his  place?" 

"Peneluna  Sniff." 

"Was  he  married  ?"  Floating  in  Rivers's  mind  was  an  old 
story,  but  it  floated  too  fast  for  him  to  catch  it. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  95 

"She  went  through  the  marriage  service.  That  fixes  it, 
don't  it?"  Twombley  puffed  loudly. 

"  I  suppose  it  does,  but  I  kind  of  recall  that  there  was  a 
quarrel  between  them." 

"Ain't  that  a  proof  that  they  was  married?"  Twombley's 
eyes  twinkled  through  the  slits  of  lids — he  always  squinted 
his  eyes  close  when  he  wanted  to  go  slow.  Larry  laughed. 

"Didn't  Peneluna  Sniff,  or  whatever  her  name  is,  live  in  a 
house  by  herself?"  he  asked.  He  was  puzzled. 

"  She  sure  did.  Your  old  man  was  a  powerful  understander 
of  human  nater.  A  few  feet  'twixt  married  folks,  he  uster 
say,  often  saves  the  day." 

"Well,  who's  got  her  house?" 

"She's  got  it." 

"Empty?" 

"I  guess  the  same  truck's  in  it  that  always  was.  I  ain't 
seen  any  moving  out." 

"Is  Mrs.  Sniff  at  home?" 

"How  do  you  suppose  I  know,  young  man?  These  ain't 
calling  hours  on  the  Point." 

"Well,  they're  business  hours,  all  right,  Twombley.  See 
here,  my  friend,  I'm  going  to  hire  that  house  of  Mrs.  Sniff  if  I 
can." 

Twombley's  slits  came  close  together. 

"Yes?"  was  all  he  vouchsafed. 

"Yes.     And  I  wish  you'd  pass  the  word  along,  my  friend." 

"I  don't  pass  nothing!"  Twombley  interrupted.  "I  take 
all  I  kin  git.  I  make  use  of  what  I  can.  The  rest,  I  chuck." 

"Well,  have  it  your  own  way,  but  I'm  your  friend,  Twom- 
bley, and  the  friend  of  your  neighbours.  I  cannot  say  more 
now — but  you'll  all  believe  it  some  day." 

"Maclin  standing  back  of  yer,  young  feller?" 

"Yes.  And  that's  where  you've  made  another  bad  guess, 
Twombley.  Maclin's  your  friend,  only  he  isn't  free  to  speak 
out  just  now." 

"Gosh!  we  ain't  eager  for  him  to  speak.  The  stiller  he  is 
the  better  we  like  it." 

"He  knows  that.     He's  given  up — he  is  going  to  see  what 


96  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

I  can  make  you  feel — I'm  one  of  you,  you  know  that,  Twom- 
bley." 

"Never  would  have  guessed  it,  son!"  Twombley  leered. 

"Well,  my  wife's  always  been  your  friend — what's  the 
difference?  I've  been  on  my  job;  she's  been  on  hers — it's  all 
the  same,  only  now  I'm  going  to  prove  it!" 

"Gosh!  you'll  be  a  shock  to  Maclin  all  right." 

"No,  I  won't,  Twombley.  You're  wrong  about  him. 
He's  meant  right,  but  not  being  one  of  us  he's  bungled,  he 
knows  it  now.  He's  listened  to  me  at  last." 

Larry  could  be  a  most  important-appearing  person  when 
there  was  no  one  to  prick  his  little  bubble.  Twombley  eyed 
his  visitor  calmly. 

"Funny  thing,  life  is,"  he  ruminated,  seeming  to  forget 
Larry's  presence.  "  Yer  get  to  thinking  you're  running  down 
hill  on  a  greased  plank,  and  sudden — a  nail  catches  yer 
breeches  and  yer  stop  in  time  to  see  where  yer  was  going!" 

"What  then,  Twombley?" 

"Oh!  nothing.  Only  as  long  as  yer  breeches  hold  and  tb*- 
nail  don't  come  out,  yer  keep  on  looking!" 

Again  Twombley  spat.  Then,  seeing  his  guest  rising,  h<? 
asked  with  great  dignity: 

"Going,  young  sir?" 

"Yes,  over  to  Mrs.  SnifPs.  And  if  we  are  neighbours, 
Twombley,  let  us  be  friends.  My  father  had  a  liking  for  you, 
I  remember." 

"I'm  not  forgetting  that,  young  sir." 

When  Larry  reached  Mrs.  Sniff's,  Jan-an  was  still  riotously 
sweeping  the  memories  of  the  funeral  away.  She  turned 
and  looked  at  Larry.  Then,  leaning  on  her  broom,  she  con- 
tinued to  stare. 

"Well,  what  in  all  possessed  got  yer  down  here?"  asked 
the  girl,  her  face  stiffening. 

"Where's  Mrs.  Sniff?"  Larry  asked.  He  always  resented 
Jan-an,  on  general  principles.  She  got  in  his  way  too  often. 
When  she  was  out  of  sight  he  never  thought  of  her,  but  hei 
vacant  stare  and  monotonous  drawl  were  offensive  to  him. 

He  had  on^e  suggested  that  she  be  confined  somewhere. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  97 

"You  never  can  tell  about  her  kind,"  he  had  said;  he  had  a 
superstitious  fear  of  her. 

"What,  shut  the  poor  child  from  her  freedom?"  Aunt 
Polly  had  asked  him,  "just  because  we  cannot  tell?  Lordy! 
Larry  Rivers,  there  wouldn't  be  many  people  running  around 
loose  if  we  applied  that  rule  to  them." 

There  were  some  turns  that  conversation  took  that  sent 
Larry  into  sudden  silences — this  had  been  one.  He  had 
never  referred  to  Jan-an's  treatment  after  that,  but  he  always 
resented  her. 

Jan-an  continued  to  stare  at  him. 

"There  ain't  no  Mrs.  Sniff"  she  said  finally.  "What's 
ailin'  folks  around  here?" 

"Well,  where's  Miss  Peneluna?"  Larry  ventured,  thinking 
back  to  the  old  title  of  his  boyhood  days. 

"Setting!"  Jan-an  returned  to  her  sweeping  and  Larry 
stepped  aside. 

"I  want  to  see  her,"  he  said  angrily.  "Get  out  of  the 
way." 

"She  ain't  no  great  sight,  and  I'm  cleaning  up!"  Jan-an 
scowled  and  her  energy  suggested  that  Larry  might  soon  be 
included  among  the  things  she  was  getting  rid  of. 

"See  here" — Larry's  eyes  darkened — "if  you  don't  stand 
aside " 

But  at  this  juncture  Peneluna  loomed  in  the  doorway. 
She  regarded  Larry  with  a  tightening  of  the  mouth  muscles. 
Inwardly  she  thought  of  him  as  a  bad  son  of  a  good  father,  but 
intuitions  were  not  proofs  and  because  Doctor  Rivers  had 
been  good,  and  Mary-Clare  was  always  to  be  considered,  the 
old  woman  kept  her  feelings  to  herself. 

She  was  still  in  her  rusty  black,  the  rakish  bonnet  set  awry 
on  her  head. 

"Come  in!"  she  said  quietly.  "And  you,  Jan-an,  you 
trundle  over  to  my  old  place  and  clean  up." 

Larry  went  inside  and  sat  down  in  the  chair  nearest  the 
door.  The  neatness  and  order  of  the  room  struck  even  his 
indifferent  eyes,  so  unexpected  was  it  on  the  Point. 

"Well?"  Peneluna  looked  at  her  visitor  coolly.     Larry  did 


98  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

not  speak  at  once — he  was  going  to  get  the  house  next  door;  he 
must  have  it  and  he  did  not  want  to  make  any  mistakes  with 
the  grim,  silent  woman  near  him.  He  was  not  considering 
the  truth,  but  he  was  selecting  the  best  lies  that  occurred 
to  him;  the  ones  most  likely  to  appeal  to  his  future  landlady. 

"Miss  Peneluna,"  he  began  finally,  but  the  stiff  lips  inter- 
rupted him: 

"Mrs.  Sniff." 

"Good  Lord !  Mrs.  Sniff,  then.  You  see,  I  didn't  know  you 
were  married." 

"Didn't  you?  You  might  not  know  everything  that  goes 
on.  You  don't  trouble  us  much.  Your  goings  and  comings 
leave  us  strangers." 

Larry  did  not  reply.  He  was  manufacturing  tears,  and 
presently,  to  Peneluna's  amazement,  they  glistened  on  his 
cheeks. 

"I  wonder" —  Larry's  voice  trembled — "I  wonder  if  I  can 
speak  openly  to  you,  Mrs. — Mrs.  Sniff?  You  were  in  my 
father's  house;  he  trusted  you.  I  do  not  seem  to  have  any 
one  but  you  at  this  crisis." 

Peneluna  sneezed.  She  had  a  terrible  habit  of  sneezing 
at  will — it  was  positively  shocking. 

"I  guess  there  ain't  any  reason  for  you  not  speaking  out 
your  ideas  to  me,"  she  said  cautiously.  "I  ain't  much  of  a 
fount  of  wisdom,  but  I  ain't  a  babbling  brook,  neither." 

She  was  thinking  that  it  would  be  safer  to  handle  Rivers 
than  to  let  others  use  him,  and  she  knew  something  of  the 
trouble  at  the  yellow  house.  Jan-an  had  regaled  her  with 
some  rare  tidbits. 

"Peneluna,  Mary-Clare  and  I  have  had  some  words;  I've 
left  home." 

There  was  no  answer  to  this.  Larry  moistened  his  lips 
and  went  on: 

"Perhaps  Mary-Clare  has  told  you?" 

"No,  she  ain't  blabbed  none." 

This  was  disconcerting. 

"She  wouldn't,  and  I  am  not  going  to,  either.  It's  just  a 
misunderstanding,  Mrs.  Sniff.  I  could  go  away  and  let  it 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  99 

rest  there,  but  I  fear  I've  been  away  too  much  and  things 
have  got  snarled.  Mary-Clare  doesn't  rightly  see  things." 

"Yes  she  does,  Larry  Rivers!  She's  terrible  seeing." 
Peneluna's  eyes  flashed. 

"All  right  then,  Mrs.  Sniff.  I  want  her  to  see  !  I  want  her 
to  see  me  here,  looking  after  her  interests.  I  cannot  explain; 
you'll  all  know  soon  enough.  Danger's  threatening  and  I'm 
going  to  be  on  the  spot!  You've  all  got  a  wrong  line  on  Mac- 
lin,  so  he's  side-stepped  and  listened  to  me  at  last;  I'm  going 
to  show  up  this  man  Northrup  who  is  hanging  round.  I  want 
to  hire  your  house,  Mrs.  Sniff,  and  live  on  here  until " 

Peneluna  sneezed  lustily;  it  made  Larry  wince. 

"Until  Mary-Clare  turns  you  out?"  she  asked  harshly. 
"And  gets  talked  about  for  doing  it — or  lets  you  stay  on  re- 
flecting upon  her  what  can't  tell  her  side  ?  Larry  Rivers,  you 
always  was  a  thorn  in  your  good  father's  side  and  I  reckon 
you've  been  one  in  Mary-Clare's." 

Larry  winced  again  and  recalled  sharply  the  old  vacations 
and  this  woman's  silent  attitude  toward  him.  It  all  came 
back  clearly.  He  could  always  cajole  Aunt  Polly  Heathcote, 
but  Peneluna  had  explained  her  attitude  toward  him  in  the 
past  by  briefly  stating  that  she  "internally  and  eternally 
hated  boys." 

"You're  hard  on  me,  Mrs.  Sniff.  You'll  be  sorry  some 
day." 

"Then  I'll  be  sorry!"  Peneluna  sneezed. 

Presently  her  mood,  however,  changed.  She  regarded 
Larry  with  new  interest. 

"How  much  will  you  give  me  for  my  place?"  Peneluna 
leaned  forward  suddenly  and  quite  took  Larry  off  his  guard. 
He  had  succeeded  so  unexpectedly  that  it  had  the  effect  of 
shock. 

"Five  dollars  a  month,  Mrs.  Sniff." 

"I'm  wanting  ten." 

This  was  a  staggering  demand. 

"How  bad  does  he  want  it?"  Peneluna  was  thinking. 

"How  far  had  I  best  give  in?"  Larry  estimated. 

"Make  it  seven,"  he  ventured. 


ioo  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"Seven  and  then  three  dollars  a  week  more  if  I  cook  and 
serve  for  you." 

Larry  had  overlooked  this  very  important  item. 

"All  right!"  he  agreed.     "When  can  I  come?" 

"Right  off."  Peneluna  felt  that  she  must  get  him  under 
her  eye  as  soon  as  possible.  She  moved  to  the  door. 

"You'll  make  it  straight  with  Mary-Clare?" 

Larry  was  following  the  rigid  form  out  into  the  gathering 
dark — a  storm  was  rising;  the  bell  on  the  distant  island  was 
ringing  gleefully  like  a  wicked  little  imp  set  free. 

"I'll  tell  her  that  you're  here  and  that  she  best  let  you 
'stay  on,  if  that's  what  you  mean."  Peneluna  led  the  way 
over  the  well-worn  path  she  had  often  trod  before.  "And, 
Larry  Rivers,  I  don't  rightly  know  as  I'm  doing  fair  and 
square,  but  look  at  it  as  you  will,  it's  better  me  than  another 
if  anything  is  wrong.  I  served  yer  good  father  and  I  set  a 
store  by  yer  wife  and  child — and  I  want  to  hang  hold  of  you 
all.  I've  let  you  have  yer  way  down  here,  but  I  don't  want 
any  ructions  and  I  ain't  going  to  have  Maclin's  crowd  hinting 
and  defiling  anybody." 

"I'll  never  forget  this,  Mrs.  Sniff."  In  the  gathering 
gloom,  behind  Peneluna's  striding  form,  Larry's  voice  almost 
broke  again  and  undoubtedly  the  tears  were  on  his  cheeks. 
"Some  day,  when  you  know  all,  you'll  understand." 

"I'm  a  good  setter  and  waiter,  Larry  Rivers,  and  as  to 
understanding,  that  is  as  it  may  be.  I  can  only  see  just  so 
far!  I  can't  turn  my  back  on  the  old  doctor's  son  nor  Mary- 
Clare's  husband  but  I  don't  want  any  tricks.  You  better  not 
forget  that!  There's  a  bed  in  yonder."  The  two  had 
entered  the  house  next  door.  Jan-an  had  done  good  work. 
The  place  was  in  order  and  a  fire  burned  in  the  stove.  "I'll 
fetch  food  later."  With  this  Peneluna,  followed  by  Jan-an, 
a  trifle  more  vague  than  usual,  left  the  house. 

The  rain  was  already  falling  and  the  wind  rising — it  was 
the  haunted  wind;  the  bell  sounded  in  the  distance  sharply. 
Jan-an  paused  in  the  gathering  darkness  and  spoke  trem- 
blingly: 

"What's  a-going  on  ?"  she  asked.     Peneluna  turned  and  laid 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  101 

her  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder;  her  face  softened — but  Jan-an 
could  not  see  that. 

"Child" — the  old  voice  fell  to  a  whisper — "I  ain't  going  to 
expect  too  much  of  yer — God  Almighty  made  yer  out  of  a 
skimpy  pattern,  I  know,  but  what  He  did  give  yer  can  be 
helped  along  by  using  it  for  them  yer  love.  Child,  watch 
there!" 

A  long  crooked  forefinger  pointed  to  the  shack,  the  windows 
of  which  were  already  darkened — for  Larry  had  drawn  the 
shades! 

"Watch  early  and  late  there!  Keep  your  mouth  shut, 
except  to  me.  Jan-an,  I  can  trust  yer?" 

The  girl  was  growing  nervous. 

"Yes'm,"  she  blurted  suddenly  and  then  fell  to  weeping. 
"I  keep  feelin'  things  like  wings  a-touching  of  me,"  she 
muttered.  "I  hate  the  feelin'.  When  nothing  ain't  hap- 
pened ever,  what's  the  reason  it  has  ter  begin  now?" 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  Peneluna  sat  down  by  her 
fireside  to  think.  She  had  cooked  a  meal  for  Larry  and 
carried  it  to  him;  she  had  soothed  and  fed  Jan-an  and  put 
her  to  bed  on  a  cot  near  the  bed  upon  which  old  Philander 
SnifFhad  once  rested,  and  now  Peneluna,  with  SnifFs  old  Bible 
on  her  knees,  felt  safe  to  think  and  read,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
the  wings  Jan-an  had  sensed  were  touching  her!  The  book 
was  marked  at  passages  that  had  appealed  to  the  old  man. 
Often,  after  Mary-Clare  had  read  to  him  and  left,  thinking 
that  she  had  made  no  impression,  the  trembling,  gnarled  hand 
had  pencilled  the  words  to  be  reread  in  lonely  moments. 

Peneluna  had  never  read  the  Bible  from  choice;  indeed, 
her  education  had  been  so  limited  as  to  be  negligible,  but 
lately  these  pencilled  marks  had  become  tremendously 
significant  to  her.  She  was  able,  somehow,  to  follow  Philan- 
der Sniff  closely,  catching  sight  of  him,  now  and  again,  in  an 
illumined  way  guided  by  the  Bible  verses.  It  was  like  the 
blind  leading  the  blind,  to  be  sure,  and  often  it  seemed  a  blind 
trail,  but  occasionally  Peneluna  could  pause  and  take  a  long 
breath  while  she  beheld  the  vision  that  must  have  helped  her 
friend  upon  his  isolated  way. 


102  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

To-night,  however,  she  was  tired  and  puzzled  and  worried. 
She  kept  reverting  to  Larry:  her  eyes  only  lighted  on  the 
printed  words  before  her;  her  thoughts  drifted. 

What  had  been  going  on  in  the  Forest?  Why  was  the 
storm  breaking? 

But  suddenly  a  verse  more  heavily  marked  than  the  others 
stayed  her: 

And  a  highway  shall  be  there,  and  a  way  and  it  shall  be  called  the 
way  of  holiness.  The  wayfaring  men,  though  fools,  shall  not  err 
therein. 

Over  and  over  Peneluna  read  and  pondered;  more  and  more 
she  puzzled. 

"Land  o'  love!"  she  muttered  at  last.  "Now  these  here 
words  mean  something  particular.  Seems  like  they  must 
get  into  me  with  their  meaning  if  I  hold  to  'em  long  enough. 
Lord!  I  don't  see  how  folks  can  enjoy  religion  when  you 
have  to  swallow  it  without  tasting  it." 

But  so  powerful  is  suggestion  through  words,  that  pres- 
ently the  old  woman  became  hypnotized  by  them.  They 
sprang  out  at  her  like  flashes — one  by  one.  "Highway" — 
she  could  grasp  that.  "A  way  and  it  shall  be  called  " — these 
words  ran  into  each  other  but — the  "way"  held.  "The 
wayfarer" — well!  that  was  easy;  all  folks  taking  to  the  high- 
way were  wayfarers — "though  fools  shall  not  err  therein." 

Peneluna,  without  realizing  it,  was  on  The  Highway  over 
which  all  pass,  living,  seeing,  feeling,  and  storing  up  expe- 
rience. In  old  Philander's  quiet  memory-haunted  room  she 
was  pausing  and  looking  back;  groping  forward — under- 
standing as  she  had  never  understood  before! 

At  times,  catching  the  meaning  of  what  the  present  held, 
her  old  face  quivered  as  a  child's  does  that  is  lost,  and  she 
would  think  back,  holding  to  some  word  or  look  that  gave  her 
courage  again  to  fix  her  eyes  ahead. 

"So!  so!"  she  would  nod  and  mutter.  "So!  so!"  It  was 
like  meeting  others  on  The  Highway,  greeting  them,  and  then 
going  on  alone! 

That  was  the  hurt  of  it  all — she  was  alone.     If  only  there 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  103 

had  been  someone  to  hold  her  hand,  to  help  her  when  she 
stumbled,  but  no!  she  was  like  a  creature  in  a  land  of  shadowy 
ghosts.  Ghosts  whom  she  knew;  who  knew  her,  but  they 
could  not  linger  long  with  her. 

More  than  the  others,  Philander  persisted,  but  perhaps 
that  was  because  of  the  pencilled  words.  They  were  guide- 
posts  he  had  left  for  her.  And  strangest  of  all,  this  passing 
to  and  fro  on  The  Highway  seemed  to  concern  Larry  Rivers 
most  of  all.  Larry,  who,  during  all  the  years,  had  meant 
nothing  more  to  King's  Forest  than  that  he  was  the  old 
doctor's  son,  Mary-Clare's  husband,  and  Maclin's  secret 
employee. 

Larry,  asleep  in  the  shack  next  door,  had  taken  on  new 
proportions.  He  meant,  for  the  first  time,  to  Peneluna,  a 
person  to  whom  she  owed  something  by  virtue  of  knowledge. 
Knowledge!  What  really  did  she  know?  How  did  she 
know  it?  She  did  not  question — she  accepted  and  became 
responsible  in  a  deep  and  grateful  manner.  She  must  remem- 
ber about  Larry.  Remember  all  she  could — it  would  help 
her  now. 

The  trouble,  Peneluna  knew,  began  with  Larry's  mother. 
Larry's  mother  had  wrecked  the  old  doctor's  life;  had  driven 
him  to  King's  Forest.  No  one  had  ever  told  Peneluna  this — 
but  she  knew  it.  It  did  not  matter  what  that  woman  had 
done,  she  had  hurt  a  man  cruelly.  Once  the  old  doctor  had 
said  to  Peneluna — it  came  sharply  back,  now,  like  a  call  from 
a  wayfarer: 

"Miss  Pen,  it  is  because  of  such  women  as  you  and  Aunt 
Polly  that  men  can  keep  their  faith." 

That  was  when  Larry  was  desperately  ill  and  Polly  Heath- 
cote  and  Peneluna  were  nursing  him — he  was  a  little  boy  then, 
home  on  a  vacation.  It  was  because  of  the  woman  that 
neither  of  them  had  ever  known  that  they  tried  to  mother 
the  boy — but  Larry  was  difficult,  he  had  queer  streaks. 
Again  Peneluna  looked  back,  back  to  some  of  the  difficult 
streaks. 

Once  Larry  had  stolen!  He  had  gone,  too,  when  quite  a 
child,  to  the  tavern!  He  had  tasted  the  liquor,  made  the 


104  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

men  laugh!  The  old  doctor  had  been  in  a  sad  state  at  that 
time  and  Larry  had  been  sent  to  school. 

After  that,  well,  Peneluna  could  not  recall  Larry  distinctly 
for  many  years.  She  knew  the  old  doctor  clung  to  him 
passionately;  went  occasionally  to  see  him,  came  back 
troubled;  came  back  looking  older  each  time  and  depending 
more  upon  Mary-Clare,  whose  love  and  devotion  could 
smooth  the  sadness  from  his  face. 

Then  that  night,  the  marriage  night  of  Mary-Clare!  Pene- 
luna had  been  near  the  old  doctor  when  Larry  bent  to  catch 
the  distorted  words  that  were  but  whispered.  She  knew, 
she  seemed  always  to  have  known,  that  Larry  had  lied;  he 
had  not  understood  anything. 

Peneluna  had  tried  to  interfere,  but  she  was  always  fum- 
bling; she  could  patiently  wait,  but  action,  with  her,  was 
slow. 

And  then  Maclin!  Since  Maclin  came  and  bought  the 
mines  and  Larry — oh!  what  did  it  all  mean?  Had  things 
been  slumbering,  needing  only  a  touch  ? 

And  who  was  this  man  at  the  inn?  Was  he  the  Touch? 
What  was  going  to  happen  in  this  dull,  sluggish  life  of  King's 
Forest  ? 

The  night  was  growing  old,  old!  Peneluna,  too,  was  old 
and  tired.  The  Highway  was  fraught  with  terrors  for  her; 
the  ghosts  frightened  her.  They  were  trying  to  make  her 
understand  what  she  must  do,  now  that  they  had  shown  her 
The  Way.  She  must  keep  the  old  doctor's  son  from  Maclin 
if  she  could  and  from  the  stranger  at  the  inn,  if  she  had  need. 
If  trouble  came  she  must  defend  her  own. 

The  weary  woman  nodded;  her  eyes  closed;  the  Book 
slipped  from  her  lap  and  lay  like  a  "light  unto  her  feet." 
She  had,  somehow,  got  an  understanding  of  Larry  Rivers: 
she  believed  that  through  his  "difficult  streaks"  Maclin  had 
got  a  hold  upon  him;  was  using  him  now  for  evil  ends.  It 
was  for  her,  for  all  who  loved  the  old  doctor,  to  shield,  at  any 
cost,  the  doctor's  son.  That  Larry  was  unworthy  did  not 
weigh  with  Peneluna.  Where  she  gave,  she  gave  with  aban- 
don. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  UNT  POLLY  came  into  the  living-room  of  the  inn 
l\  noiselessly,  but  Peter,  at  the  fireside,  opened  his 
•*-  A.  eyes.  Nothing  could  have  driven  him  to  bed  earlier, 
but  he  appeared  to  have  been  sleeping  for  hours. 

Polly's  glasses  adorned  the  top  of  her  head.  This  was 
significant.  When  she  had  arrived  at  any  definite  conclu- 
sion she  pushed  her  spectacles  away  as  though  her  physical 
vision  and  her  spiritual  were  one  and  the  same. 

"Time,  Polly?"  Peter  yawned. 

"Going  on  to  'leven." 

"He  come  in?" 

Full  well  Peter  knew  that  he  had  not! 

"No,  Peter,  and  his  evening  meal  is  drying  up  in  the  oven 
— I  had  creamed  oysters,  too.  Creamed  oysters  are  his 
specials." 

"Scandalous,  your  goings  on  with  this  young  man!" 
Peter  sat  up  and  stretched.  Then  he  smiled  at  his  sister. 

"Well,  Peter,  all  my  life  I've  had  to  take  snatches  and 
scraps  out  of  other  folks'  lives  when  I  could  get  them;  and 
I  declare  I've  managed  to  patch  together  a  real  Lady's  De- 
light-pattern sort  of  quilt  to  huddle  under  when  I'm  cold 
and  tired." 

"Tired  now,  Polly?" 

"Not  exactly  tired,  brother,  but  sort  of  rigid.  Feel  as 
if  I  was  braced  for  something.  I've  often  had  that  feel- 
ing." 

"  Women !  women !"  muttered  Peter,  and  threw  on  another 
log. 

"What  you  suppose  has  happened  to  keep  our  young  feller 
from  the — the  oysters,  eh?" 

"  I'm  not  accounting  for  folks  or  things  these  days,  Peter. 


io6  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

I'm  just  keeping  my  eyes  and  ears  open.  Jan-an  makes  me 
uneasy!"  This  came  like  a  mild  explosion. 

"What's  she  up  to?"  Peter  sniffed. 

"Land!  the  poor  soul  is  like  the  barometer  you  set  such 
store  by.  Everything  looking  clear  and  peaceful  and  then 
suddenlike  up  she  gets,  as  she  did  an  hour  ago,  and  grabs  her 
truck  and  sets  out  for  Mary-Clare's  like  she  was  summoned. 
Just  saying  she  had  to!  These  are  queer  times,  brother. 
I  ain't  easy  in  my  mind." 

"If  Jan-an  doesn't  calm  down,"  Peter  muttered,  "she 
may  have  to  be  put  somewhere,  as  Larry  Rivers  once  sug- 
gested. Larry  hasn't  many  earmarks  of  his  pa — but  he 
may  have  a  sense  about  human  ailments." 

"Think  shame  of  yourself,  Peter  Heathcote,  to  let  any- 
thing Larry  Rivers  says  disturb  your  natural  good  feelings. 
Where  could  we  send  Jan-an  if  we  wanted  to?"  Peter  de- 
clined to  reply  and  Aunt  Polly  went  on:  "Larry  isn't  living 
with  Mary-Clare,  Peter!"  she  added.  This  was  a  more 
significant  explosion.  Peter  turned  and  his  hair  seemed  to 
spring  an  inch  higher  around  his  red,  puffy  face. 

"Where  is  he  living?"  he  asked.  When  deeply  stirred, 
Peter  went  slow  and  warily. 

"He's  hired  Peneluna's  old  shack." 

Peter  digested  this;  but  found  it  chaff. 

"You  got  this  from  Jan-an?" 

"I  got  it  from  her  and  from  Peneluna.  Peter,  Peneluna 
looks  and  acts  like  one  of  them  queer  sort  of  ancient  bodies 
what  used  to  sit  on  altars  or  something,  and  make  remarks 
that  no  one  was  expected  to  differ  from.  She  just  dropped 
in  this  morning  and  said  that  Larry  Rivers  had  taken  her 
shack;  was  paying  for  it,  too." 

"Has,  or  is  going  to?"  Peter  was  giving  himself  time  to 
think. 

"Has!"  Aunt  Polly  was  pulling  her  cushions  into  the 
cavities  of  her  tired  little  body. 

"Damn  funny!"  muttered  Peter  and  added  another  log. 
The  heat  was  growing  ferocious.  Then,  as  he  eyed  his  sister: 
"Better  turn  in,  Polly.  You  look  scrunched."  To  look 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  107 

"scrunched"  was  to  look  desperately  exhausted.  "No  use 
wearing  yourself  out  for — for  folks,"  he  added  with  a  ten- 
derness in  his  voice  that  always  brought  a  peculiar  smile  to 
Polly's  eyes. 

"I  don't  see  as  there  is  anything  else  much,  brother,  to 
wear  one's  self  out  for." 

"Why  frazzle  yourself  for  anything?" 

"Why  shouldn't  I  ?  What  should  I  be  keeping  myself  for, 
Peter?  Surely  not  for  my  own  satisfaction.  No.  I  always 
hold  if  folks  want  me,  then  I'm  particularly  pleased  to  be  had. 
As  to  frazzling,  seems  like  we  only  frazzle  just  so  far,  then  a 
stitch  holds  and  we  get  our  breath." 

In  this  mood  Polly  worried  Peter  deeply.  He  could  not 
keep  from  looking  ahead — he  avoided  that  usually — to  a 
time  when  the  little  nest  at  the  far  end  of  the  sofa  would  be 
empty;  when  the  click  of  knitting  needles  would  sound  no 
more  in  the  beautiful  old  room. 

"There's  me!"  he  whispered  at  length  like  a  half-ashamed 
but  frightened  boy. 

Polly  drew  her  glasses  down  and  gave  him  a  long,  straight 
look  full  of  a  deep  and  abiding  love. 

"You're  the  stitch,  Peter  my  man,"  she  whispered  back  as 
if  fearing  someone  might  hear,  "always  the  saving  stitch. 
And  take  this  to  bed  with  you,  brother:  the  frazzling  isn't 
half  so  dangerous  as  dry  rot,  or  moth  eating  holes  in  you. 
Queer,  but  I  was  getting  to  think  of  myself  as  laid  on  the 
shelf  before  Brace  drifted  in,  and  when  I  do  that  I  get  old- 
acting  and  stiff-jointed.  But  I've  noticed  that  it's  the  same 
with  folks  as  it  is  with  the  world,  when  they  begin  to  flatten 
down,  then  the  good  Lord  drops  something  into  them  to 
make  'em  sorter  rise.  No  need  to  flatten  down  until  you're 
dead.  Feeling  tired  is  healthy  and  proper — not  feeling  at 
all  is  being  finished.  So  now,  Peter,  you  just  go  along  to 
bed.  I  always  have  felt  that  a  man  hates  to  be  set  up  for, 
but  he  can  overlook  a  woman  doing  it;  he  sets  it  down  to  her 
general  foolishness,  but  Brace  would  just  naturally  get  edgy 
if  he  found  us  both  up." 

Peter  came  clumsily  across  the  room  and  stood  over  the 


io8  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

small  creature  on  the  sofa.  He  wanted  to  kiss  her.  Instead, 
he  said  gruffly: 

"See  that  the  fire's  banked,  Polly.  Looks  as  if  I'd  laid 
on  a  powerful  lot  of  wood  without  thinking."  Then  he 
laughed  and  went  on:  "You're  durned  comical,  Polly.  What 
you  said  about  the  Lord  putting  yeast  into  folks  and  the 
world  is  comical." 

"I  didn't  say  yeast,  Peter  Heathcote." 

"Well,  yer  meant  yeast." 

"No,  I  didn't  mean  yeast.  I  just  meant  something  like 
Brace  was  talking  about  to-day." 

"What  was  it?"  Peter  stood  round  and  solid  with  the  fire- 
light ruddily  upon  him. 

"He  said  that  the  fighting  overseas  ain't  properly  a  war, 
but  a  general  upheaval  of  things  that  have  got  to  come  to  the 
top  and  be  skimmed  off.  We  ain't  ever  looked  at  it  that 
way."  Polly  resorted  to  familiar  similes  when  deeply  af- 
fected. 

"I  guess  all  wars  is  that."  Peter  looked  serious.  He 
rarely  spoke  of  the  trouble  that  seemed  far,  far  from  his 
quiet,  detached  life,  but  lately  he  had  shaken  his  head  over 
it  in  a  new  way.  "But  God  ain't  meaning  for  us  to  take 
sides,  Polly.  It's  like  family  troubles.  You  don't  under- 
stand them,  and  you  better  keep  out.  Just  think  of  our  good 
German  friends  and  neighbours.  We  can't  go  back  on  them 
just  'cause  their  kin  across  the  seas  have  taken  to  fighting. 
Our  Germans  have,  so  to  speak,  married  in  our  family,  and  we 
must  stand  by  'em."  Peter  was  voicing  his  unrest.  Polly 
saw  the  trouble  in  his  face. 

"Of  course,  brother,  and  I  only  meant  that  lately  so  many 
things  are  stirring  in  the  Forest  that  it  seems  more  like  the 
Forest  wasn't  a  scrap  set  off  by  itself.  I  seem  to  have  lots  of 
scraps  floating  in  my  mind  lately — things  I've  heard,  and  all 
are  taking  on  meaning  now.  I  remember  someone  saying, 
I  guess  it  was  the  Bishop,  that  in  a  drop  of  ocean  water,  there 
was  all  that  went  into  the  ocean's  making,  except  size.  That 
didn't  mean  anything  until  Brace  set  me  to — to  turning 
over  in  my  mind,  and,  Peter,  it  seems  terrible  sensible  now. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  109 

All  the  big,  big  world  is  just  little  scraps  of  King's  Forests 
welded  all  together  and  every  King's  Forest  is  a  drop  of  the 
world." 

Peter  looked  gravely  troubled  as  men  often  do  when  their 
women  take  to  thinking  on  their  own  lines.  Usually  the 
heedless  man  dismisses  the  matter  with  but  small  respect, 
but  Peter  was  not  that  kind.  All  his  life  he  had  depended 
upon  his  sister's  "vision"  as  he  called  it.  He  might  laugh 
and  tease  her,  but  he  never  took  a  definite  step  without 
reaching  out  to  her. 

"A  man  must  plant  his  foot  solid  on  the  path  he  knows," 
he  often  said,  "but  that  don't  hinder  him  from  lifting  his 
eyes  to  the  sky."  And  it  was  through  Aunt  Polly's  eyes  that 
Peter  caught  his  view  of  skies. 

"I  don't  exactly  like  Brace  digging  down  into  things  so 
much."  Peter  gave  a  troubled  sigh.  "Some  things  ain't  any 
use  when  they  are  dug  up." 

"But  some  things  are,  brother.     We  must  know." 

"Well,  by  gosh !"  Peter  began  to  sway  toward  the  door  like 
a  heavily  freighted  side-wheeler.  "I  get  to  feeling  sometimes 
as  if  I'd  kicked  over  a  hornet's  nest  and  wasn't  certain 
whether  it  was  a  last  year's  one  or  this  year's.  In  one  case 
you  can  hold  your  ground,  in  the  other  you  best  take  to  your 
heels.  Well,  I'm  going  to  leave  you,  Polly,  for  your  date 
with  your  young  man.  Don't  forget  the  fire  and  don't  set 
up  too  long." 

Left  to  herself,  Polly  neatly  folded  her  knitting  and  stuck 
the  glistening  needles  through  it.  She  folded  her  small, 
shrivelled  hands  and  a  radiant  smile  touched  her  old  face. 

Oh !  the  luxury  of  daring  to  sit  up  for  a  man.  The  excite- 
ment of  the  adventure!  And  while  she  waited  and  brooded, 
Polly  was  thinking  as  she  had  never  done  until  recently.  All 
her  life  she  believed  that  she  had  thought,  and  to  suddenly 
find,  as  she  had  lately,  that  her  conclusions  were  either  wrong 
or  confused  made  her  humble. 

Now  there  was  Mary-Clare!  Why,  from  her  birth,  Mary- 
Clare  had  been  an  open  book!  Poor  Polly  shook  her  head. 
An  open  book  ?  Well,  if  so  she  did  not  know  the  language 


no  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

in  which  that  book  was  written,  for  Mary-Clare  was  troubling 
her  now  deeply. 

And  Larry?  Larry  had  suddenly  come  into  focus,  and 
Maclin,  and  Northrup.  They  all  seemed  reeling  around  her; 
*11  united,  but  in  deadly  peril  of  being  flung  apart. 

It  was  all  too  much  for  Aunt  Polly  and  she  unrolled  her 
knitting  and  set  the  needles  to  their  accustomed  task.  Even- 
tually Mary-Clare  would  come  to  the  inn  and  simply  tell 
her  story — full  well  Polly  knew  that.  It  was  Mary-Clare's 
way  to  keep  silentuntil  necessity  for  silence  was  past  and  then 
calmly  take  those  she  loved  into  her  confidence.  But  there 
were  disturbing  things  going  on.  Aunt  Polly  could  not  blind 
herself  to  them. 

At  this  moment  Northrup's  step  sounded  outside.  He 
came  hastily,  but  making  little  noise. 

"What's  up?"  he  asked,  starting  back  at  the  sight  of  Aunt 
Polly. 

"Just  me,  son.  Your  dinner  is  scorched  to  nothing,  but 
I  wanted  to  tell  you  where  the  cookie  jar  is." 

Northrup  came  over  to  the  sofa  and  sat  down. 

"You  deep  and  opaque  female,"  he  said,  throwing  his  arm 
over  the  little  bent  shoulders.  "Own  up.  It  isn't  cookies, 
it's  a  switch.  What  have  I  done?  Out  with  it." 

Aunt  Polly  laughed  softly. 

"  It's  neither  cookies  nor  switches  when  you  come  down  to 
it,"  she  chuckled.  "It's  just  waiting  and  not  knowing 
why." 

Northrup  leaned  back  against  the  sofa  and  said  quietly: 

"Guessing  about  me,  Aunt  Polly?" 

"Guessing  about  everything,  son.  Just  when  I  thought  I 
was  nearing  port,  where  I  ought  to  be  at  my  age,  I  find  myself 
all  at  sea." 

"Same  with  me,  Aunt  Polly.  We're  part  of  the  whole 
upheaval,  and  take  it  from  me,  some  of  us  are  going  to  find 
ourselves  high  and  dry  by  and  by  and  some  of  us  will  go  under. 
We  don't  understand  it;  we  can't;  but  we've  got  to  try  to — 
and  that's  the  very  devil.  Aunt  Polly,  I've  been  on  the 
Point,  talking  to  some  of  the  folks  down  there — there  is  a 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  in 

fellow  called  Twombley,  odd  cuss.  He  told  me  he's  tried  to 
earn  his  living,  but  found  people  too  particular." 

"Earn  his  living,  huh!"  Polly  tried  to  look  indignant. 
"He's  a  scamp,  and  old  Doctor  Rivers  was  the  ruination  of 
him.  The  old  doctor  used  to  quote  Scripture  in  a  scandalous 
way.  He  said  since  we  have  the  poor  always  with  us,  it  is 
up  to  us  to  have  a  place  for  them  where  they  can  be  comfort- 
able. Terrible  doctrine,  I  say,  but  that  was  what  the  old 
doctor  kept  the  Point  for  and  it  was  after  Twombley  tried 
to  earn  his  living — the  scamp!"  Northrup  saw  that  he 
had  diverted  Aunt  Polly  and  gladly  let  her  talk  on. 

"Doctor  had  an  old  horse  as  was  just  pleading  to  be  put  an 
end  to,  but  the  doctor  couldn't  make  his  mind  up  to  it  and 
Twombley  finally  undertook  to  settle  the  matter  with  a  shot- 
gun, up  back  in  the  hills.  Twombley  never  missed  the  bull's- 
eye — a  terrible  hand  with  a  gun  he  was.  The  doctor  gave 
him  two  dollars  for  the  job  and  looked  real  sick  the  day  he 
heard  that  shot.  Well,  less  than  a  week  after  Twombley 
came  to  the  doctor  and  says  as  how  he  heard  that  a  horse 
has  to  be  buried  and  that  if  it  isn't  the  owner  gets  fined 
twenty-five  dollars,  and  he  says  he'll  bury  the  carcass  for  five 
dollars.  He  explained  how  the  horse,  lying  flat,  was  power- 
ful sizable,  and  it  would  be  a  stern  job  to  get  it  under  ground. 
Well,  old  doctor  gave  the  five  dollars  and  Twombley  took 
to  the  woods. 

"It  was  a  matter  of  a  month,  maybe,  when  Twombley  came 
back,  and  soon  after  old  Philander  Sniff  appeared  with  a  horse 
and  cart,  and  Doctor  Rivers,  as  soon  as  he  set  his  eyes  on  the 
horse,  sent  for  Twombley.  Do  you  know,  son,  that  scamp 
actually  figured  it  out  with  the  doctor  as  to  the  cost  of  food 
and  care  he'd  been  put  to  in  order  to  get  that  shot-and- 
buried-horse  into  shape  for  selling!  He'd  sold  him  for  ten 
dollars  and  expenses  were  twelve." 

Northrup  leaned  back  and  laughed  until  the  quiet  house 
reechoed  with  his  mirth. 

"Son,  son!"  cautioned  Polly,  shaking  and  dim-eyed, 
"it's  going  on  to  midnight.  We  can't  carouse  like  this.  But 
land!  it  is  uplifting  to  have  a  talk  when  you  ought  to  be 


ii2  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

sleeping.  Well,  the  old  doctor  bought  the  Point  just  then 
and  bought  Twombley  a  new  gun.  Folks  as  couldn't  earn 
their  keep  proper  naturally  drifted  to  the  Point — God's 
living  acre,  as  the  doctor  called  it." 

Northrup  rose  and  stretched  his  arms  and  then  bent,  as 
Peter  had  done,  to  Aunt  Polly.  But  unlike  Peter  he  kissed 
the  small  yearning  face  upraised  to  his. 

"It  must  be  pleasant — being  your  mother,"  Polly  whis- 
pered. 

"It's  pleasant  having  you  acting  as  substitute,"  Northrup 
replied.  "Shall  I  bank  the  fire,  Aunt  Polly?" 

"No,  son,  there's  something  else  I  must  see  to  before  I 
turn  in.  Aren't  you  going  for  the  cookies?" 

"Yes'm.  Going  to  munch  them  in  bed."  And  tiptoeing 
away  in  the  most  orthodox  manner  Northrup  left  Aunt 
Polly  alone. 

Why  was  she  staying  up?  She  had  no  clear  idea  but  she 
was  restless,  sleepless,  and  bed,  to  her,  was  no  comfort 
under  such  conditions.  However,  since  she  had  stated  that 
she  had  something  to  do,  she  must  find  it.  She  went  to  a  desk 
in  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  and  took  from  it  her  house- 
keeping book.  She  would  balance  that  and  surprise  Peter! 
Peter  always  was  so  surprised  when  she  did.  She  bought 
the  book  to  her  nest  on  the  sofa  and  set  to  work. 

Debit  and  credit.  Figures,  figures,  figures.  And  then, 
mistily,  words  took  their  places.  Names. 

Mary-Clare:  Larry. 

Larry:  Northrup. 

Mary-Clare!  It  was  funny.  The  columns  danced  and 
giddily  wobbled — and  at  the  foot  there  was  only — Maryj 
Clare!  Mary-Clare  was  troubling  the  dear  old  soul. 

Then,  startled  by  the  falling  of  the  book  to  the  floor,  Aunt 
Polly  opened  her  eyes  and  gazed  into  the  face  of  Mary-Clare 
standing  before  her! 

The  girl  had  a  wind-swept  look,  physically  and  spiritually. 
Her  hair  was  loose  about  her  face,  her  eyes  like  stars,  and  she 
was  smiling. 

"Oh!  you  dear  thing,"  she  vh»'spered,  bending  to  recover 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  113 

che  book,  "adding  and  subtracting  when  the  whole  world 
sleeps.  Isn't  it  a  wonderful  feeling  to  have  the  night  to 
yourself?" 

Mary-Clare  crouched  down  before  the  red  blazing  logs; 
her  coat  and  hat  fell  from  her  and  she  stretched  her  hands 
out  to  the  heat  with  a  little  shiver  of  luxurious  content. 

Aunt  Polly  knew  the  girl's  mood  and  left  her  to  herself. 
She  had  come  to  tell  something  but  must  tell  it  in  her  own 
way.  To  question,  to  intrude  a  thought,  would  only  tend 
to  confuse  and  distract  her,  so  Polly  took  up  her  knitting 
and  nodded  cheerfully.  She  had  a  feeling  that  all  along  she 
had  been  waiting  for  Mary-Clare. 

"I  suppose  big  things  like  being  born  and  dying  are  very 
simple  when  they  come.  It  is  the  mistaking  the  big  and  little 
things  that  makes  us  all  so  uncertain.  Aunt  Polly,  Larry 
has  left  me."  The  start  had  been  made! 

"Yes;  Peneluna  told  us.  He  hasn't  gone  far."  Aunt 
Polly  knitted  on  while  Mary-Clare  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"Oh!  dearie,  he  was  far,  far  away  before  he  started  for  the 
Point.  Land  doesn't  count — it's  more  than  that,  only  I  did 
not  know.  Isn't  it  queer,  Aunt  Polly,  now  that  I  understand 
things,  I  find  that  marrying  Larry  and  having  the  babies 
haven't  touched  me  at  all — I  never  belonged  to  them  or  they 
to  me — except  Noreen.  And  it's  queer  about  Noreen,  too, 
she  will  never  seem  part  of  all  that." 

Mary-Clare,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire,  was  thinking  aloud; 
her  breath  came  short  and  quick  as  if  she  had  been  running. 

"My  dear  child!"  Aunt  Polly  was  shocked  in  spite  of  her- 
self. "No  woman  can  shake  off  her  responsibilities  in  that 
way.  Larry  is  your  husband  and  you  have  been  a  mother." 

"You  are  talking  words,  Aunt  Polly,  not  things."  Aunt 
Polly  knew  that  she  was  and  it  made  her  wince. 

"That's  the  trouble  with  us  all,  Aunt  Polly.  Saying  words 
over  and  over  and  calling  them  things — as  if  you  could  take 
God  in!" 

There  was  no  bitterness  in  the  tones,  but  there  was  the 
weary  impatience  of  a  child  that  had  been  too  often  denied 
the  truth. 


ii4  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"No  matter  what  people  say  and  say,  underneath  there  is 
truth,  Aunt  Polly,  and  it's  up  to  us  to  find  it." 

"And  you  think  you  are  competent" — Aunt  Polly,  reflect- 
ing that  she  was  using  words,  used  them  doubtfully — "you 
think  you  are  competent  to  know  what  is  truth  and  to  act 
upon  it — to  the  extent  of  sending  your  husband  out  of  his 
home?" 

If  a  small  love-bird  could  look  and  sound  fierce  it  would 
resemble  Aunt  Polly  at  that  moment.  Mary-Clare  turned 
from  the  contemplation  of  the  fire  and  fixed  her  deep  eyes 
upon  the  troubled  old  face. 

"You  dear!"  she  whispered  and  then  laughed. 

Presently,  the  fire  again  holding  her,  Mary-Clare  went  on: 

"I  think  I  must  try  to  find  truth  with  my  woman-brain, 
Aunt  Polly.  That  was  what  my  doctor-daddy  always  in- 
sisted upon.  He  wouldn't  even  let  me  take  his  word  when 
it  came  to  anything  that  meant  a  lot  to  me." 

"He  wanted  you  to  marry  Larry!" 

This  was  a  telling  stroke  and  a  long  silence  followed. 
Then: 

"I  wonder,  Aunt  Polly,  I  wonder." 

"Do  you  doubt,  child?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  even  if  he  did  he  was  sick  and  so — so 
tired,  and  Larry  always  worried  him.  I  know  very  surely 
that  if  my  doctor  were  here,  and  knew  everything,  he'd  say 
harder  than  ever:  'Use  your  woman-mind/  And  I'm  going 
to!  Why,  Aunt  Polly,  I  haven't  driven  Larry  away  from  his 
home.  I  meant  to  make  it  a  better  place,  once  I  set  the 
wrong  aside.  But  you  see,  he  wanted  it  just  his  way  and 
nothing  else  would  do." 

The  dear  old  face  that  had  confronted  life  vicariously 
flushed  gently;  but  the  young  face  that  had  set  itself  to  the 
stern  facts  of  life  showed  neither  weakness  nor  doubt. 

"It  has  come  to  me,  dear" — Mary-Clare  now  turned  and 
came  close  to  Aunt  Polly,  resting  her  folded  arms  on  the 
thin  little  knees — "It  has  come  to  me,  dear,  that  things 
are  not  fixed  right  and  when  they  are  not,  it  won't  do  any 
good  to  keep  on  acting  as  if  they  were.  Being  married  to 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  115 

Larry  could  never  make  it  right  for  me  to  do  what  seems  to 
me  wrong.  And  oh!  Aunt  Polly,  I  wish  that  I  could  make 
you  understand.  Do  try  to  understand,  dear,  there  is  a 
sacred  place  in  my  soul,  and  I  just  do  believe  it  is  in  all  wo- 
men's souls  if  they  dared  to  say  so — that  no  one,  not  even  a 
husband,  has  a  right  to  claim.  It  is  hers  and — God's.  But 
men  don't  know,  and  some  don't  care — and  they  just  rush 
along  and  take  and  take,  never  counting  what  it  may  cost — 
and  they  make  laws  to  help  them  when  they  might  fail  with- 
out, and — well,  Aunt  Polly,  it  is  hard  to  stand  all  alone  in 
the  world.  I  think  the  really  happy  women  are  those  who 
don't  know  what  I  mean,  or  those  that  have  loved  enough, 
loved  a  man  true  enough — to  share  that  sacred  place  with  him 
—the  place  he  ought  not  ask  for  or  have  a  law  for.  I  know 
you  do  not  understand,  Aunt  Polly.  I  did  not  myself  until 
Peneluna  told  me." 

At  this  Aunt  Polly  braced  against  the  pillows  as  if  they 
were  rocks. 

"Peneluna!"  she  gasped. 

'*  Let  me  tell  you,  Aunt  Polly.  It  is  such  a  wonderful  thing." 

As  she  might  have  spoken  to  Noreen,  so  Mary-Clare  spoke 
now  to  the  woman  who  had  only  viewed  life  as  Moses  had 
the  Promised  Land,  from  her  high  mount. 

"And  so,  can  you  not  see,  dear  Aunt  Polly,  it  isn't  a 
thing  that  laws  can  touch;  it  isn't  being  good  or  bad — it  is  too 
big  a  Thing  to  call  by  name.  Peneluna  could  starve  and  still 
keep  it.  She  could  be  lonely  and  serve,  but  she  knew.  I 
don't  love  Larry,  I  cannot  help  it.  All  my  life  I  am  going 
to  keep  all  of  the  promise  I  can,  Aunt  Polly,  but  I'm  going  to 
— to  keep  myself,  too!  A  woman  can  give  a  man  a  good  deal 
— but  she  can't  give  him  some  things  if  she  tries  to!  Look 
at  the  women;  some  of  them  in  the  Forest.  Aunt  Polly, 

if  marriage  means  what  they  look  like "  Mary-Clare 

shuddered. 

Aunt  Polly  had  suddenly  grown  tender  and  far-seeing. 
She  let  go  the  sounding  words  that  Church  and  State  had 
taught  her. 

"Little  girl,"  she  said,  and  all  her  motherhood  rushed 


ii6  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

forward  to  seize,  as  it  had  ever  done,  those  "scraps"  of 
others'  lives,  "suppose  the  time  should  come  when  there 
would  be  in  your  life  another — someone  besides  Larry? 
Why  has  all  this  come  so  sudden  to  you?" 

Northrup  seemed  to  loom  in  the  room,  just  beyond  the 
fire's  glow.  Her  fear  was  taking  shape. 

"Oh!  dearie,  I  might  then  ask  Larry  to  release  me  from 
my  promise.  My  doctor  used  to  say  one  could  do  that,  but 
if  he  would  not,  why,  then — I'd  keep  my  bargain  as  far  as  I 

could.  But "  and  here  Mary-Clare  rose  and  flung 

her  arms  above  her  head.  The  action  was  jubilant,  majestic. 
"Oh!  the  wonder  of  it  all;  to  be  free  to  be  myself  and  prove 
what  I  think  is  right  without  having  to  take  another's  idea  of 
it.  I'll  listen;  I'll  try  to  understand  and  be  patient — but 
it  cannot  be  wrong,  Aunt  Polly,  the  thing  I've  done — since 
this  great  feeling  of  wings  has  come  to  me  instead  of  heavy 
feet!  Why,  dear,  I  want  something  more  than — than  the 
things  women  think  are  theirs.  We  don't  know  what  is  ours 
until  we  try." 

"And  fail,  my  child?"     Aunt  Polly  was  crying. 

"Yes;  and  fail  sometimes  and  be  hurt — but  paying  and 
going  on." 

"And  leaving  your  man  behind  you?" 

"Aunt  Polly" — Mary-Clare  looked  down  upon  the  kind, 
quivering  face — "a  woman's  man  cannot  be  left  behind. 
He'll  be  beside  her  somehow.  If  she  stays  back,  as  I've 
tried  to  do,  she  wouldn't  be  his  woman!  That's  the  dread- 
ful trouble  with  Larry  and  me.  But,  dearie,  it  isn't  always 
a  man  in  a  woman's  life." 

"But  the  long,  lonely  way,  child!"  Polly  was  retracing  her 
own  denied  womanhood. 

"It  need  not  be  lonely,  dear,  when  we  women  find — 
other  things.  They  will  count.  They  must." 

"What  other  things,  Mary-Clare?" 

"That's  what  we  must  be  finding  out,  dear.  Love;  the 
man:  some  day  they  will  be  the  glory,  making  everything 
more  splendid,  but  not — the  all.  I  think  I  should  have  died, 
Aunt  Polly,  had  I  kept  on." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  117 

Like  an  inspired  young  oracle,  Mary-Clare  spoke  and 
then  dropped  again  by  the  fire. 

"I've  somehow  learned  all  this,"  she  whispered,  "in  my 
Place  up  on  the  hill.  It  just  came  to  me,  little  by  little,  until 
it  convinced  me.  I  had  to  tell  Larry  the  truth." 

"Mary-Clare,  I  do  not  know;  I  don't  feel  able  to  put  it 
into  words,  but  I  do  believe  you're  going  to  make  sad  trouble 
for  yourself,  child.  Such  a  thing  as  this  you  have  done  has 
never  been  done  before  in  the  Forest." 

"Maybe." 

A  door  upstairs  slammed  loudly  and  both  women  started 
nervously. 

"I  must  tell  Peter  to  fix  the  latch  of  the  attic  door  to- 
morrow," Aunt  Polly  said,  relieved  to  be  back  on  good, 
plain,  solid  ground.  "The  attic  winders  are  raised  and  the 

wind's  rising.  It  will  be  slam,  slam  all  night,  unless " 

she  rose  quickly. 

"Just  a  minute,  Aunt  Polly,  I'm  so  tired.  Please  let  me 
lie  here  on  the  couch  and  rest  for  an  hour  and  then  I'll  slip 
home." 

"Let  me  put  you  to  bed  properly,  child.  You  look  sud- 
denly beat  flat.  That's  the  way  with  women.  They  get  to 
thinking  they've  got  wings  when  they  ain't,  child,  they 
ain't.  You're  making  a  terrible  break  in  your  life,  child. 
Terrible." 

Mary-Clare  was  arranging  the  couch. 

"Come,  dear,"  she  wheedled,  "you  tuck  me  up — so!  I'll 
bank  the  fire  when  I  go  and  leave  everything  safe.  A  little 
rest  and  then  to-morrow! — well,you'll  see  that  I  have  wings, 
Aunt  Polly;  they  are  only  tired  now — for  they  are  new  wings! 
I  know  that  it  must  seem  all  madness,  but  it  had  to  come." 

Aunt  Polly  pulled  the  soft  covering  over  the  huddled  form 
— only  the  pale,  wistful  face  was  presently  to  be  seen;  the 
great,  haunting  eyes  made  Aunt  Polly  catch  her  breath. 
She  bent  and  kissed  the  forehead. 

"Poor,  reaching-out  child!"  she  whispered. 

"For  something  that  is  there,  Aunt  Polly." 

"God  knows!" 


n8  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"Of  course  He  does.  That's  why  He  gave  us  the — reach. 
Good-night.  Oh!  how  I  love  you,  Aunt  Polly.  Good- 
night!" 

It  was  Northrup's  door  that  had  slammed  shut.  Aunt 
Polly  went  above,  secured  the  innocent  attic  door,  and 
then  pattered  down  to  her  bedroom  near  Peter's,  feeling 
that  her  house,  at  least,  was  safe. 

It  was  silent  at  last.  Northrup,  in  his  dark  chamber,  lay 
awake  and — ashamed,  though  heaven  was  his  witness  that 
his  sin  was  not  one  he  had  planned.  Aunt  Polly  had  been 
on  his  mind.  He  hated  to  have  her  down  there  alone. 
Her  sitting  up  for  him  had  touched  and — disturbed  him; 
he  had  left  his  door  ajar. 

"I'll  listen  for  a  few  minutes  and  if  she  doesn't  go  to  bed, 
I'll  go  down  and  shake  her,"  he  concluded,  and  then  promptly 
went  to  sleep  and  was  awakened  by  voices.  Low,  earnest 
voices,  but  he  heard  no  words  and  was  sleepily  confused. 
If  he  thought  anything,  he  thought  Peter  had  been  doing 
what  was  needed  to  be  done — driving  Polly  to  bed! 

And  then  Northrup  did  hear  words.  A  word  here;  a 
word  there.  He  knew  things  he  had  no  right  to  know — he 
was  awake  at  last,  conscientiously,  as  well  as  physically. 
He  got  up  and  slammed  the  door! 

But  he  could  not  go  to  sleep.  He  felt  hot  and  cold;  mean 
and  indignant — but  above  all  else,  tremendously  excited. 
He  lay  still  a  little  longer  and  then  opened  his  door  in  time 
to  hear  that  "good-night,  good-night";  and  presently 
Aunt  Polly's  raid  on  the  unoffending  attic  door  at  the  other 
end  of  the  corridor  and  her  pattering  feet  on  their  way,  at 
last,  to  her  bedchamber. 

"She's  forgot  to  bank  the  fire."  Northrup  could  see  the 
glow  from  his  post  and  remembered  Uncle  Peter's  careful- 
ness. "I'll  run  down  and  make  things  safe  and  lock  the 
door."  Northrup  still  held  his  respect  for  doors. 

In  heavy  gown  and  soft  slippers  he  noiselessly  descended. 
The  living-room  at  the  far  end  was  dark;  the  fire  glowed  at 
the  other,  dangerously,  and  one  threatening  log  had  rolled 
menacingly  to  the  fore. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  119 

Bent  upon  quick  action  Northrup  silently  crossed  the 
floor,  grasped  the  long  poker  and  pushed  the  blazing  wood 
back  past  the  safety  line  and  held  it  there. 

His  face  burned,  but  there  was  a  hypnotic  lure  in  that  bed 
of  red  coals.  All  that  he  had  just  heard — a  disjointed  and 
rather  dramatic  revealment — was  having  a  peculiar  effect 
upon  him.  He  had  become  aware  of  some  important  facts 
that  accounted  for  things,  such  as  Rivers's  appearance  on 
the  Point.  He  had  attributed  that  advent  to  Maclin's  secret 
business;  but  it  was,  evidently,  quite  different. 

What  had  occurred  in  the  yellow  house  before  the  final 
break?  Northrup's  imagination  came  to  the  fore  fully 
equipped.  Northrup  was  a  man  of  the  herd — at  least  he 
had  been,  until  lately.  He  knew  the  tracks  of  the  herd  and 
its  laws  and  codes. 

"The  brute!"  he  muttered  under  his  breath;  "and  that 
kind  of  a  girl,  too.  Nothing  is  too  fine  for  some  devils  to 
appropriate  and — smirch.  Poor  little  girl!" 

And  then  Northrup  recalled  Mary-Clare  as  he  had  seen  her 
that  day  as  she  emerged  from  the  woods  to  meet  him  and 
her  child.  The  glory  of  Peneluna's  story  was  in  her  soul, 
the  autumn  sunlight  on  her  face.  That  lovely,  smiling, 
untouched  face  of  hers!  Again  and  again  that  memory  of 
her  held  his  fancy. 

"The  cursed  brute — hasn't  got  her,  thank  God.  She's  out 
of  the  trap." 

And,  all  unconsciously,  while  this  moral  indignation  had 
its  way,  Northrup  was  drawing  nearer  to  Mary-Clare;  under- 
standing her,  appropriating  her!  God  knew  he  meant  no 
wrong.  After  all  she  had  suffered  he  wasn't  going  to  mess 
her  life  more — but  he'd  somehow  make  up  to  her  what  she'd 
a  perfect  right  to.  All  men  were  not  low  and  bestial.  He 
had  a  duty — he  would  be  above  the  touch  of  idle  chatter;  he 
would  take  a  hand  in  the  game! 

And  just  then  Northrup,  controlled  by  the  force  of  attrac- 
tion, turned  his  head  and  looked  at  the  face  of  Mary-Clare 
upon  the  couch  near  him! 

In  all  his  life  Northrup  had  never  looked  upon  the  face  of 


120  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

a  sleeping  woman,  and  it  stirred  him  deeply.  He  became  as 
rigid  as  marble;  the  heat  beat  upon  him  as  it  might  have  upon 
stone.  And  then — as  such  wild  things  do  occur,  his  old, 
familiar  dream  came  to  him;  he  seemed  in  the  dream.  He 
had  at  last  opened  one  of  those  closed  doors  and  was  seeing 
what  the  secret  room  held!  He  was  part  of  the  dream  as  he 
was  of  his  book  in  the  making. 

He  breathed  lightly;  he  did  not  move — but  he  was  over- 
come by  waves  of  emotion  that  had  never  before  even 
lapped  his  feet. 

At  that  instant  Mary-Clare's  eyes  opened.  For  a  moment 
they  held  his;  then  she  turned,  sighed,  and  he  believed  that 
she  had  not  really  awakened. 

Northrup  rose  stiffly  and  made  his  way  to  his  room. 

"She  was  asleep!"  he  fiercely  thought  until  he  was  safe 
behind  his  locked  door! 

"Was  she?"  He  had  to  face  that  in  the  silence  of  the 
hours  after.  "I'll  know  when  I  next  meet  her."  This  was 
almost  a  groan. 


CHAPTER  IX 

KATHRYN  MORRIS,  as  the  days  of  Northrup's 
absence  stretched  into  weeks,  grew  more  and  more 
restless.  She  began  to  do  some  serious  thinking,  and 
while  this  developed  her  mentally,  the  growing  pains  hurt 
and  she  became  twisted. 

Heretofore  she  had  been  borne  along  on  a  peaceful  current. 
She  was  young  and  pretty  and  believed  that  everyone  saw 
her  as  she  wanted  them  to  see  her — a  charming,  an  unusually 
charming  girl. 

People  had  always  responded  to  her  slightest  whim,  but 
suddenly  her  own  particular  quarry  had  eluded  her;  did  not 
even  pine  for  her;  was  able  to  keep  silent  while  he  left  her 
and  his  mother  to  think  what  they  chose. 

At  this  moment  Kathryn  placed  herself  beside  Helen 
Northrup  as  a  timid  debutante  shrinks  beside  her  chap- 
eron. 

"And  that  old  beast" — Kathryn  in  the  privacy  of  her 
bedchamber  could  speak  quite  openly  to  herself — "that 
old  beast,  Doctor  Manly,  suggested  that  at  forty  I  might  be 

fat  if "  Well,  it  didn't  matter  about  the  "if."  Kathryn 

did  a  bit  of  mental  arithmetic,  using  her  fingers  to  aid  her. 
What  was  the  difference  between  twenty-four  and  forty? 
The  difference  seemed  terrifyingly  little.  "A  fat  forty! 
Oh,  good  Lord!" 

Kathryn  was  in  bed  and  it  was  nine-thirty  in  the  morn- 
ing! She  sprang  out  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror. 

"Well,  my  body  hasn't  found  it  out  yet!"  she  whispered, 
and  her  pretty  white  teeth  showed  complacently. 

Then  she  sat  down  in  a  deep  chair  and  took  account  of 
stock.  That  "fat-forty"  was  a  mere  panic.  She  would 
not  think  of  it — but  it  loomed,  nevertheless. 


122  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Of  course,  for  the  time  being,  there  was  Sandy  Arnold  on 
the  crest  of  one  of  his  financial  waves. 

Kathryn  was  level-headed  enough  not  to  lose  sight  of  re- 
ceding waves  but  then,  on  the  other  hand,  the  crest  of  a 
receding  wave  was  better  than  to  be  left  on  the  sands — fat 
and  forty!  And  Northrup  was  displaying  dangerous  traits. 
A  distinct  chill  shook  Kathryn. 

She  turned  her  thought  to  Northrup.  Northrup  had 
seemed  safe.  He  belonged  to  all  that  was  familiar  to  her. 
He  would  be  famous  some  day — that  she  might  interfere  with 
this  never  occurred  to  the  girl.  She  simply  saw  herself  in  a 
gorgeous  studio  pouring  tea  or  dancing,  and  all  the  people 
paying  court  to  her  while  knowing  that  they  ought  to  be 
paying  it  to  Northrup. 

"  But  he  always  gets  a  grubby  hole  to  work  in."  Kathryn 
fidgeted.  "I  daresay  he  is  working  now  in  some  smudgy 
old  place." 

But  this  thought  did  not  last.  She  could  insist  upon  the 
studio.  A  man  owes  his  wife  something  if  he  will  have  his 
way  about  his  job. 

Just  at  this  point  a  tap  on  the  door  brought  a  frown  to 
Kathryn's  smooth  forehead. 

"Oh!  come  in,"  she  called  peevishly. 

A  drab-coloured  woman  of  middle  age  entered.  She  was 
one  of  the  individuals  so  grateful  for  being  noticed  at  all 
that  her  cheerfulness  was  a  constant  reproach.  She  had 
been  selected  by  Kathryn's  father  to  act  as  housekeeper 
and  chaperon.  As  the  former  she  was  a  gratifying  success; 
as  the  latter,  a  joke  and  one  to  be  eliminated  as  much  as 
possible. 

For  the  first  time  in  years  Kathryn  regarded  her  aunt  now 
with  interest. 

"Aunt  Anna" — Kathryn  never  indulged  in  graceful  tact 
with  her  relations — "Aunt  Anna,  how  old  are  you?" 

Anna  Morris  coloured,  flinched,  but  smiled  coyly. 

"Forty-two,  dear,  but  it  was  only  yesterday  that  my  dress- 
maker said  that  I  should  not  tell  that.  It  is  not  necessary, 
you  know." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  123 

"I  suppose  not!"  Kathryn  was  regarding  the  fatness  of 
the  woman  who  was  calmly  setting  the  disorderly  room  to 
rights.  "Aunt  Anna,  why  didn't  you  marry?" 

The  dull,  fat  face  was  turned  away.  Anna  Morris  never 
lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  when  Kathryn  married  she  would 
face  a  stern  situation  unless  Kathryn  proved  kinder  than 
any  one  had  any  reason  to  expect  her  to  be.  So  her  remarks 
were  guarded. 

"Oh!  my  dear,  my  dear,  what  a  question.  Well,  to  be 
quite  frank,  I  discovered  at  eighteen  that  some  men  could 
stir  my  senses" — Anna  Morris  tittered — "and  some 
couldn't.  At  twenty-two  the  only  man  who  could  stir  me 
was  horribly  poor;  the  other  stirring  ones  had  been  snapped 
up.  You  see,  there  was  no  one  to  help  me  with  my  affairs. 
Your  father  never  did  understand.  The  only  thing  he  was 
keen  about  was  making  money  enough  to  marry  your  mother. 
Then  you  were  born  and  your  mother  died  and — well,  there 
was  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  come  here  and  help  him  out. 
One  has  plain  duties.  I  always  had  sense  enough" — Anna 
Morris  moved  about  heavily — "to  realize  that  senses  do  not 
stir  when  poverty  pinches,  and  this  house  was  comfortable; 
and  duty  can  fill  in  chinks.  I  always  contend" — the  dull 
eyes  now  confronted  Kathryn — "that  there  is  a  dangerous 
age  for  men  and  women.  If  they  get  through  that  alive 
and  alone — well,  there  is  a  kind  of  calm  that  comes." 

"I  suppose  so."  Kathryn  felt  a  sinking  in  the  region  of 
the  heart.  "Are  you  ever  lonely?"  she  asked  suddenly. 
"Ever  feel  that  you  let  your  own  life  slip  when  you  helped 
Father  and  me?" 

Anna  Morris's  lips  trembled  as  they  always  did  when  any 
one  was  kind  to  her;  but  she  got  control  of  herself  at  once — 
she  could  not  afford  the  comfort  of  letting  herself  go! 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Yes;  sometimes.  But  who  isn't 
lonely  at  times?  Marriage  can't  prevent  that  and  even 
your  own  private  life,  quite  your  own,  is  bound  to  have  some 
lonely  spells.  There  are  all  kinds  of  husbands.  Some  float 
about,  heaven  knows  where;  their  wives  must  be  lonely;  and 
then  the  settled  sort — dear  me!  I've  often  s«en  women  ter- 


124  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

ribly  lonely  right  in  the  rooms  with  their  husbands.  I  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  once  you  pass  the  dangerous  age 
you're  as  well  placed  one  way  as  another.  That  is,  if  you  are 
a  woman." 

Kathryn  was  looking  unusually  serious.  While  she  was  in 
this  mood  she  clutched  at  seeming  trifles  and  held  them  curi- 
ously. 

"What  was  Brace's  father  like?"  she  suddenly  asked. 

Anna  Morris  started. 

"Why,  what  ails  you,  Kathie?"  she  asked  suspiciously. 
"You've  never  taken  any  interest  before.  Why  should  you? 
A  young  girl  and  all  that — why  should  you?"  « 

"Tell  me,  Aunt  Anna.     I've  often  wondered." 

Anna  Morris  sat  down  heavily  in  a  chair.  The  older 
Northrup  had  once  had  power  to  stir  her;  was  one  of  the  men 
too  poor  for  her  to  consider. 

"Well,"  she  began  slowly,  tremblingly,  "he  wasn't  com- 
panionable at  the  last,  but  I  shall  always  see  his  side.  Helen 
Northrup  is  a  fine  woman — I  can  understand  how  many 
take  her  part,  but  being  married  to  her  kind  must  seem  like 
mental  Mormonism.  She  calls  it  developing — but  a  man 
like  Thomas  Northrup  married  a  woman  because  she  was 
the  kind  he  wanted  and  he  couldn't  be  expected  to  keep 
trace  of  all  the  kinds  of  women  Helen  Northrup  ran  into  and 
—out  of!" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Aunt  Anna.  Do  talk 
sense." 

Kathryn  was  almost  excited.  It  was  like  reading  what 
wasn't  intended  for  innocent  young  girls  to  know. 

"Well,  first,  Helen  Northrup  was  just  like  all  loving  young 
girls,  I  guess — but  when  she  didn't  find  all  she  wanted,  she 
took  to  developing,  as  she  called  it.  For  my  part  I  believe 
when  a  woman  finds  her  husband  isn't  all  she  expected,  she 
ought  to  accept  her  lot  and  make  the  best  of  it." 

"And  Brace's  mother  started  out  to  make  her  own  lot?  I 
see." 

Kathryn  nodded  her  head. 

"Well,  something  like  that.    She  took  to  writing.    Thomas 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  125 

Northrup  didn't  know  what  ailed  her  and  I  don't  wonder. 
She  should  have  spent  herself  on  his  career,  not  making  one 
for  herself.  But  I  must  say  when  Brace  was  born  she  stopped 
that  nonsense  but  she  evolved  then  into  a  mother!"  Anna 
sniffed.  "A  man  can  share  with  his  children,  but  when  it 
comes  to  giving  up  everything,  well!" 

"What  did  he  do,  Aunt  Anna?" 

"He  went  away." 

"With  a  woman?" 

"Yes." 

"One  he  just  met  when  Mrs.  Northrup  became  a  mother?" 

"He  knew  her  before,  but  if  Helen  Northrup  had  been  all 
she  should  have  been  to  him " 

"I  begin  to  see.     And  then?" 

"Well,  then  he  died  and  proved  how  noble  he  was  at 
heart.  When  he  went  off,  Helen  Northrup  wouldn't  take  a 
cent.  She  had  a  little  of  her  own  and  she  went  to  work  and 
Brace  helped  when  he  grew  older — and  then  when  Thomas 
Northrup  died  he  left  almost  all  his  fortune  to  his  wife.  He 
never  considered  her  anything  else.  I  call  his  a  really  great 
nature."  Poor  Anna  was  in  a  trembling  and  ecstatic  state. 

"I  call  him  a — just  what  he  was!"  Kathryn  was  weary  of 
the  subject.  "I  think  Brace's  mother  was  a  fool  to  let  him 
off  so  easy.  I  would  have  bled  him  well  rather  than  to  let 
the  other  woman  put  it  all  over  me." 

"My  dear,  that's  not  a  proper  way  for  you  to  talk!"  Aunt 
Anna  became  the  chaperon.  "Come,  get  dressed  now, 
dearie.  There's  the  luncheon,  you  know." 

"What  luncheon?" 

"Why,  with  Mr.  Arnold,  my  dear,  and  he  included  me,  too! 
Such  a  sweet  fellow  he  is,  and  so  wise  and  thoughtful." 

"Oh!" 

There  had  been  a  time  when  she  and  Sandy  Arnold  met 
clandestinely — it  was  such  fun!  He  included  Aunt  Anna 
now.  Why? 

And  just  then,  as  if  it  were  a  live  and  demanding  thing, 
her  eyes  fell  on  Northrup's  last  book.  She  scowled  at  it. 
It  was  a  horrible  book.  All  about  dirty,  smudgy  people 


126  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

that  you  couldn't  forget  and  who  kept  springing  out  on  you 
in  the  most  unexpected  places.  At  dinners  and  luncheons 
they  often  wedged  in  with  their  awful  eyes  fixed  on  your 
plate  and  made  you  choke.  They  probably  were  not  true. 
And  those  things  Brace  said!  Besides,  if  they  were  true, 
people  like  that  were  used  to  them — they  had  never  known 
anything  else! 

And  then  Brace  had  said  some  terrible  things  about  war; 
that  war  going  on  over  the  sea.  Of  course,  no  one  expected 
to  have  a  war,  but  it  was  unpatriotic  for  any  one  to  say  what 
Brace  had  about  those  perfectly  dear  officers  at  West  Point 
and — what  was  it  he  said? — oh,  yes — having  the  blood  of 
the  young  on  one's  soul  and  settling  horrid  things,  like 
money  and  land,  with  lives. 

At  this  Kathryn  tossed  the  book  aside  and  it  fell  at  Anna's 
feet.  She  picked  it  up  and  handled  it  as  if  it  were  a  tender 
baby  that  had  bumped  its  nose. 

"It  must  be  perfectly  wonderful,"  she  said,  smoothing  the 
book,  "to  have  an  autographed  copy  of  a  novel.  It's  like 
having  a  lock  of  someone's  hair.  Where  is  Brace,  Kathryn  ?" 

This  was  unfortunate. 

"That  is  my  business  and  his!"  Kathryn  spoke  slowly. 
Her  eyes  slanted  and  her  lips  hardened. 

"My  darling,  I  beg  your  pardon!"  And  once  more  Anna 
Morris  was  shoved  into  the  groove  where  she  belonged. 

Later  that  day,  after  the  luncheon  with  Sandy — Anna  had 
been  eliminated  by  a  master  stroke  that  reduced  her  to  tears 
and  left  Sandy  a  victim  to  Kathryn's  wiles — Kathryn  called 
upon  Helen  Northrup. 

She  was  told  by  the  smiling  little  maid  to  go  up  into  the 
Workshop.  This  room  was  a  pitiful  attempt  to  lure  Brace 
to  work  at  home;  in  his  absence  Helen  sat  there  and  scribbled. 
She  wrote  feeble  little  verses  with  a  suggestion  of  the  real 
thing  in  them.  Sometimes  they  got  published  because  the 
suggestion  caught  the  attention  of  a  sympathetic  publisher, 
and  these  small  recognitions  kept  alive  a  spark  that  was  all 
but  extinguished  when  Helen  Northrup  chose,  as  women  of 
her  time  did,  a  profession  or — the  woman's  legitimate  sphere! 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  127 

There  had  been  no  regret  in  Helen's  soul  for  whatever  part 
she  played  in  her  own  life — her  son  was  her  recompense  for 
any  disappointment  she  might  have  met,  and  he  was,  she  de- 
voutly believed,  her  interpreter.  She  loved  to  think  in  her 
quiet  hours  that  her  longings  and  aspirations  had  found  ex- 
pression in  her  child;  she  had  sought,  always,  to  consider 
his  interests  wisely — unselfishly,  of  course — and  leave  him 
as  free  to  live  his  own  life  as  though  she  were  not  the  lonely, 
disillusioned  woman  that  she  was. 

She  had  never  known  how  early  Brace  had  understood  the 
conditions  in  his  home — mothers  and  fathers  rarely  do. 
Only  once  during  his  boyhood  had  Brace  ventured  upon  the 
subject  over  which  he  spent  many  confused  and  silent  hours. 

When  he  was  fourteen  he  remarked,  in  that  strained  voice 
that  he  believed  hid  any  emotion: 

"  I  say,  Mother,  a  lot  of  fellows  at  our  school  have  fathers 
and  mothers  who  live  apart — most  of  the  fellows  side  with 
their  mothers!" 

These  words  nearly  made  Helen  ill.  She  could  make  no 
reply.  She  looked  dumbly  at  the  boy  facing  her  with  a  new 
and  awful  revealment.  She  understood  that  he  wanted  her  to 
know,  wanted  to  comfort  her;  and  she  knew,  with  terrifying 
certainty,  that  she  could  not  deceive  him — she  was  at  his 
mercy! 

She  was  wise  enough  to  say  nothing.  But  after  that  she 
felt  his  suddenly  acquired  strength.  It  was  shown  in  his 
tenderness,  his  cheerfulness,  his  companionship,  and,  thank 
God!  in  his  silence. 

But  while  Helen  gloried  in  her  boy  she  still  was  loyal  to  the 
traditions  of  marriage,  and  her  little  world  never  got  behind 
her  screen.  She  had  divorced  her  husband  because  he 
desired  it — then  she  went  on  alone.  When  her  husband 
died  away  from  home,  his  body  was  brought  to  her.  It  had 
been  his  last  request  and  she  paid  all  respect  to  it  with  her 
boy  close  beside  her.  And  then  she  forgot — really,  in  most 
cases — the  things  that  she  had  been  remembering.  She 
erected  over  her  dead  husband,  not  a  stone,  but  a  living 
unreality.  It  answered  the  purpose  for  which  it  was  de- 


128  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

signed;  it  made  it  possible  for  her  to  live  rather  a  full  life, 
be  a  comrade  to  her  son — a  friend  indeed — and  to  share  all 
his  joys  and  many  of  his  confidences,  and  to  impress  upon 
him,  so  she  trusted,  that  he  must  not  sacrifice  anything  for 
her. 

Why  should  he,  indeed  ?  Had  she  not  interests  enough  to 
occupy  her?  The  sight  of  a  widowed  mother  draining  the 
life-blood  from  her  children  had  always  been  a  dreadful 
thing  to  Helen  Northrup,  and  so  well  had  she  succeeded  in  her 
determination  to  leave  Brace  free  that  the  subject  rarely 
came  into  the  minds  of  either. 

But  Brace's  latest  move  had  disturbed  Helen  not  a  little. 
It  startled  her,  made  her  afraid,  as  that  remark  of  his  in  his 
school  days  had  done.  Did  he  chafe  under  ties  that  he  loved 
but  found  that  he  must  flee  from  for  awhile?  Why  did  he 
and  Kathryn  not  marry?  Were  they  considering  her?  Was 
she  blinded? 

Helen  had  been  going  over  all  this  for  days  before  the 
visit  of  Kathryn,  and  during  the  night  preceding  the  call 
she  had  awakened  in  great  pain;  she  had  had  the  pain  be- 
fore and  it  had  power  to  reduce  her  to  cowardice.  It 
seemed  to  dare  her,  while  she  lay  and  suffered,  to  confide  in 
a  physician! 

There  was  an  old  memory  of  one  who  had  suffered  and 

died  from "Find  out  the  truth  about  me!"  each  dart  of 

fire  in  the  nerves  cried,  and  when  the  pain  was  over  Helen 
Northrup  had  not  dared  to  meet  the  challenge  and  go  to 
Manly  or  another!  At  first  she  tried  to  reason  with  herself; 
then  she  compromised. 

"After  all,  it  is  so  fleeting.  I'll  rest,  take  better  care  of 
myself.  I'm  not  so  young  as  I  was — Nature  is  warning  me; 
it  may  not  be  the  other." 

Well,  rest  and  care  helped  and  the  attacks  were  less  fre- 
quent. That  gave  a  certain  amount  of  hope. 

When  Kathryn  entered  the  Workshop  she  found  Helen 
on  the  couch  instead  of  at  the  flat-topped  desk.  She  looked 
very  white  and  blue-lipped  but  she  was  smiling  and  happily 
glad  to  see  her  visitor.  She  was  extremely  fond  of  Kathryn. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  129 

Early  in  life  she  had  prepared  herself  to  accept  and  love  any 
woman  her  son  might  choose — she  would  never  question  the 
gift  he  offered !  But  when  Kathryn  was  offered,  she  was  over- 
joyed. Kathryn  was  part  of  the  dear,  familiar  life;  the 
daughter  of  old  friends.  Helen  Northrup  felt  that  she  was 
blessed  beyond  all  mothers.  The  thing,  to  her,  seemed  so 
exactly  right.  That  the  marriage  did  not  take  place  had 
hardly  disturbed  her.  Kathryn  was  young,  Brace  was  win- 
ning, not  only  a  home  for  the  girl,  but  honour,  and  there 
was  always  time.  Time  is  such  a  splendid  heritage  of  youth 
and  such  a  rare  relic  of  age. 

"Why,  my  dearie-dear!"  exclaimed  Kathryn,  kneeling 
beside  the  couch.  "What  wit?" 

"Nothing,  dear  child;  nothing  more  than  a  vicious  touch 
of  neuralgia." 

"Have  you  seen  Doctor  Manly?"  Kathryn  patted  the 
pillows  and  soothed,  by  her  touch,  the  hot  forehead.  Kath- 
ryn had  the  gift  of  healing  in  her  small,  smooth  hands,  but 
not  in  her  soul. 

She  had  always  been  jealous  of  the  love  between  Brace  and 
his  mother.  It  was  so  unusual,  so  binding,  so  beyond  her 
conception;  but  she  could  hide  her  feelings  until  by  and  by. 

"Now,  dearie-dear,  we  must  send  for  Doctor  Manly.  Of 
course  Brace  ought  to  know.  He  would  never  forgive  us  if 
he  did  not  know.  I  hate  to  trouble  you  but,  my  dear,  you 
look  simply  terrifyingly  ill."  Like  a  lightning  flash  Kath- 
ryn's  nimble  wits  caught  a  possibility. 

Helen  smiled.     Then  spoke  slowly: 

"Now,  my  dear,  when  Brace  comes  home,  I  promise  to  see 
Doctor  Manly.  These  attacks  are  severe — but  they  pass 
quickly  and  there  are  long  periods  when  I  am  absolutely 
free  from  them." 

"You  mean,  you  have  attacks?"  Kathryn  looked  ap- 
palled. 

"Oh,  yes;  off  and  on.  That  fact  proves  how  unimportant 
they  are." 

Kathryn  was  again  taking  stock. 

She  believed  that  Brace  was  still  at  that  place  from  which 


130  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

the  letter  came!  She  was  fiendishly  subject  to  impressions 
and  suspicions. 

"Now  if  he  is  still  there" — thoughts  ran  like  liquid  fire 
in  Kathryn's  brain — "why  does  he  stay?  It  isn't  far."  She 
had  made  sure  of  that  by  road  maps  when  the  letter  first 
came.  "I  could  motor  out  there  and  see!"  The  liquid  fire 
brought  colour  to  the  girl's  face. 

She  was  dramatic,  too,  she  could  always  see  herself  play- 
ing the  leading  parts  in  emotional  situations.  Just  now,  like 
more  flashes  of  lightning,  disclosing  vivid  scenes,  she  saw 
herself,  prostrated  by  fear  and  anxiety  for  Helen  Northrup, 
finding  Brace,  confiding  in  him  because  she  dared  not  take 
the  chances  of  silence  and  dared  not  disobey  and  go  to 
Doctor  Manly. 

Brace  would  be  fear-filled  and  remorseful,  would  see  at 
last  how  she,  Kathryn,  had  his  interests  in  mind.  He 
would  cling  to  her.  Sitting  close  by  the  couch,  her  face 
pressed  to  Helen  Northrup's  shoulder,  Kathryn  contemplated 
the  alluring  and  passionate  scenes.  Brace  had  always  lacked 
passion.  She  had  always  to  hold  Arnold  virtuously  in 
check,  but  Brace  was  able  to  control  himself.  But — and 
here  the  vivid  pictures  reeled  on,  familiarity  had  dulled 
things,  long  engagements  were  flattening — Brace  would  at 
last  see  her  as  she  was.  She'd  forgive  anything  that  might 
have  happened — of  course,  anything  might  have  happened — 
she,  a  woman  of  the  world,  understood. 

And — Kathryn  was  brought  to  a  sudden  halt — the  reel 
spun  on  but  there  was  no  picture! 

Suppose,  after  all,  there  was  nothing  really  to  be  frightened 
about  in  these  attacks?  Well,  that  would  be  found  out  after 
Brace  had  been  brought  home  and  might  enhance  rather 
than  detract  from — her  divine  devotion. 

Presently  Kathryn  became  aware  of  the  fact  that  Helen 
Northrup  had  been  speaking  while  the  reel  reeled! 

"And  then  that  escapade  of  his  when  he  was  only  seven." 
Helen  patted  the  golden  head  beside  her  while  her  thoughts 
were  back  with  her  boy.  "He  was  walking  with  me  when 
suddenly  he  looked  up;  his  poor  little  face  was  all  twisted! 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  131 

He  just  said  rather  impishly,  'I'm  going!  I  am  really!'  and 
he  went!  I  was,  naturally,  frightened,  and  ran  after  him — 
then,  when  I  caught  sight  of  him,  a  long  way  ahead,  I  stopped 
and  waited.  When  he  thought  I  was  not  following,  he  waded 
right  out  into  a  puddle;  he  even  had  a  scrappy  fight  with  a 
bigger  boy  who  contested  his  right  to  invade  the  puddle. 
It  was  so  absurd.  Kathryn,  I  actually  went  home;  I  felt 
sure  Brace  would  find  his  way  back  and  he  did.  I  was  nearly 
wild  with  anxiety,  but  I  waited.  He  came  back  disgustingly 
dirty,  but  hilariously  happy.  He  expected  punishment. 
When  none  was  meted  out  to  him — he  told  me  all  about  it — 
it  seemed  flat  enough  when  he  saw  how  I  took  it.  Why,  I 
never  even  mentioned  the  mud  on  him.  He  was  disappointed, 
but  I  think  he  understood  more  than  I  realized.  When  he 
went  to  bed  that  night,  he  begged  my  pardon!" 

Kathryn  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room.  She  was 
staging  another  drama.  Brace  was  now  playing  in  puddles — 
not  such  simple  ones  as  those  of  his  childhood.  He  was 
having  his  little  fight,  too,  possibly;  with  whom? 

Well,  how  perfectly  thrilling  to  save  him! 

Such  a  girl  as  Kathryn  has  as  cheap  an  imagination  as 
any  lurid  factory  girl,  but  it  is  kept  as  safely  from  sight  as  the 
contents  of  her  vanity  bag. 

"Kathryn,  have  you  heard  from  Brace?" 

The  girl  started  almost  guiltily.  Helen  hated  to  ask  this, 
she  feared  Kathryn  might  think  her  envious;  but  Kathryn 
rose  and  drew  a  chair  to  the  couch. 

"No,  dearie-dear,"  she  said  sweetly. 

"So  you  don't  know  just  where  he  is?" 

"How  could  I  know,  dearie  thing?" 

So  they  were  not  keeping  things  from  her;  shutting  her  out! 
Helen  Northrup  raised  her  head  from  the  pillow. 

"We're  in  the  same  boat,  darling,"  she  said,  so  glad  to  be 
in  the  same  boat.  "Lately  I've  had  a  few  whim-whams." 
Helen  felt  she  could  be  confidential.  "I  suppose  I  am  touch- 
ing the  outer  circle  of  old  age,  and  before  it  blinds  me,  I'm 
going  to  have  my  say.  It  would  be  just  like  you  and  Brace 
to  forget  yourselves  and  think  of  me.  And  if  I  do  not  look  out, 


i32  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

I'll  be  taking  your  sacrifice  and  calling  it  by  its  wrong  name. 
You  and  Brace  must  marry.  I  half  believe  you've  been  wait- 
ing for  me  to  push  you  out  of  the  nest.  Well,  here  you  go! 
Your  own  nest  will  be  sacred  to  me,  another  place  for  me  to 
go  to,  another  interest.  I'll  be  having  you  both  closer. 
Now,  don't  cry,  little  girl.  I've  found  you  out  and  found 
myself,  too!" 

Kathryn  was  shedding  tears — tears  of  gratitude  for  the 
material  Helen  was  putting  at  her  disposal. 

"My  dear  little  Kathryn!  It  is  going  to  be  all  right,  all 
right.  Why,  childie,  when  he  comes  home  I  am  going  to  in- 
sist upon  the  wedding.  I  am  not  a  young  woman,  really, 
though  I  put  up  a  bit  of  a  bluff — and  the  time  isn't  very  long, 
no  matter  how  you  look  at  it — so,  darling,  you  and  Brace 
must  humour  me,  do  the  one  big  thing  to  make  me  happy— 
you  must  be  married ! " 

Kathryn  looked  up.     The  tears  hung  to  her  long  lashes. 

"You  want  this?"  she  faltered  with  quivering  lips. 

Helen  believed  she  understood  at  last. 

"My  darling!"  she  said  tenderly,  "it  is  the  one  great 
longing  of  my  heart." 

Then  she  dropped  back  on  her  pillow  and  closed  her  eyes 
while  the  pain  gripped  her.  But  the  pain,  for  a  moment, 
seemed  a  friend,  not  a  foe.  It  might  be  the  thing  that  would 
open  the  door — out. 

Helen  had  spoken  truth  as  truth  should  be  but  never 
quite  isy  to  a  mother.  She  had  taken  her  place  in  the  march, 
her  colours  flying.  But  her  place  was  the  mother's  place, 
lagging  in  the  rear. 

Such  an  effort  as  she  had  just  made  caused  angels  to  weep 
over  her. 


CHAPTER  X 

BY  A  kind  of  self-hypnotism  Northrup  had  gained  his 
ends  so  far  as  drifting  with  the  slow  current  of  King's 
Forest  was  concerned,  and  in  his  relation  toward  his 
book.  The  unrest,  as  to  his  duty  in  a  world-wide  sense, 
was  lulled.  Whatever  of  that  sentiment  moved  him  was 
focussed  on  Maclin  who,  in  a  persistent,  vague  way  became  a 
haunting  possibility  of  danger  almost  too  preposterous  to  be 
considered  seriously.  Still  the  possibility  was  worth  watch- 
ing. •  Maclin's  attitude  toward  Northrup  was  interesting. 
He  seemed  unable  to  ignore  him,  while  earnestly  desiring  to 
do  so.  The  fact  was  this:  Maclin  looked  upon  Northrup  as  he 
might  have  upon  a  slow-burning  fuse.  That  he  could  not 
estimate  the  length  of  the  fuse,  nor  to  what  it  was  attached, 
did  not  mend  matters.  One  cannot  ignore  a  trail  of  fire,  and 
a  guilty  conscience  is  never  a  sleeping  one. 

The  people  on  the  Point  had  long  since  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  Northrup  was  a  trailer  of  Maclin,  not  their 
enemy.  The  opinion  was  divided  as  to  his  relations  with 
Mary-Clare,  but  that  was  a  different  matter. 

"I'll  bet  my  last  dollar,"  Twombley  muttered,  forgetting 
that  his  last  dollar  was  a  thing  of  the  past,  "that  this  young 
feller  will  find  out  about  those  inventions.  Inventions  be 
damned!  That's  what  I  say.  There's  something  going  on 
at  the  mines  that  don't  spell  inventions." 

This  was  said  to  Peneluna  who  was  aging  under  the  strain 
of  unaccustomed  excitement. 

"When  he  lands  Maclin,"  she  said  savagely,  "I'll  grab 
Larry.  Larry  is  a  fool,  but  from  way  back,  Maclin  is  the 
sinner.  Queer" — she  gave  a  deep  sigh — "how  a  stick  mud- 
dling up  a  biling  brings  the  scum  to  the  surface!  I  declare! 


134  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

I  wish  we  had  something  to  grip  hold  of.  Suspicioning  your 
neighbours  ain't  healthy." 

Jan-an,  untroubled  by  moral  codes,  was  unconditionally 
on  Northrup's  side.  She  patched  her  gleanings  into  a  vivid 
conclusion  and  announced,  much  to  Peneluna's  horror: 

"Supposin'  we  are  goin*  ter  hell  'long  of  not  knowin' 
where  we  are  goin',  ain't  it  a  lot  pleasanter  than  the  way  we 
was  traipsin'  before  things  began  to  happen?" 

Poor  Jan-an  was  getting  her  first  taste  of  romance  and 
tragedy  and  she  was  thriving  on  the  excitement.  When  she 
was  not  watching  the  romance  in  the  woods  with  Mary- 
Clare  and  Noreen,  she  was  actively  engaged  in  tragedy.  She 
was  searching  for  the  lost  letters  and  she  did  not  mince 
matters  in  her  own  thoughts. 

"Larry  stole  'em!"  she  had  concluded  from  the  first. 
"What's  old  letters,  anyway?  But  I'll  get  those  letters  if  I 
die  for  it!" 

She  shamelessly  ransacked  Larry's  possessions  while  she 
cleaned  his  disorderly  shack,  but  no  letters  did  she  find. 
She  became  irritable  and  unmoral. 

"Lordy!"  she  confided  to  Peneluna  one  day  while  they 
were  preparing  Larry's  food,  "don't  yer  wish,  Peneluna,  that 
it  wasn't  evil  to  poison  some  folks'  grub?" 

Peneluna  paused  and  looked  at  the  girl  with  startled 
eyes. 

"If  you  talk  like  that,"  she  replied,  "I'll  hustle  you  into 
the  almshouse."  Then:  "Who  would  you  like  to  do  that 
to?"  she  asked. 

"Oh!  folks  as  just  clutter  up  life  for  decent  folks.  Maclin 
and  Larry." 

"Now,  see  here,  Jan-an,  that  kind  of  talk  is  downright 
creepy  and  terrible  wicked.  Listen  to  me.  Are  you  listen- 
ing?" 

Jan-an  nodded  sullenly. 

"I'm  your  best  friend,  child.  I  mean  to  stand  by  yer,  so 
vou  just  heed.  There  are  folks  as  can  use  language  like  that 
and  others  will  laugh  it  off,  but  you  can't  do  it.  The  best 
thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  slip  along  out  of  sight  and  sound  as 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  135 

much  as  yer  can.  If  you  attract  attention — the  Lord  above 
knows  what  will  happen;  I  don't." 

Jan-an  was  impressed. 

"I  ain't  making  them  notice  me,"  she  mumbled,  "but  yer 
just  can't  take  a  joke." 

Noreen  and  Jan-an,  in  those  warm  autumn  days — and 
what  an  autumn  it  was! — often  came  to  the  little  chapel 
where  Northrup  wrote. 

They  knew  this  was  forbidden;  they  knew  that  the  morn- 
ings were  to  be  undisturbed,  but  what  could  a  man  who 
loved  children  say  to  the  two  patient  creatures  crouching 
at  the  foot  of  the  stone  steps  leading  up  to  the  church? 

Northrup  could  hear  them  whisper — it  blended  with  the 
twittering  of  the  birds — he  heard  Noreen's  chuckle  and 
Jan-an's  warning.  Occasionally  a  flaming  maple  branch 
would  fall  through  the  window  on  to  his  table;  once  Ginger 
was  propelled  through  the  door  with  a  note,  badly  printed  by 
Noreen,  tied  to  his  collar. 

"We're  here,"  the  strangely  scrawled  words  informed 
him;  "me  and  Jan-an.  We've  got  something  for  you." 

But  Northrup  held  rigidly  to  his  working  hours  and  finally 
nade  an  offer  to  his  most  persistent  foes. 

"See  here,  you  little  beggars,"  he  said,  including  the  gaunt 
Jan-an  in  this,  "if  you  keep  to  the  other  side  of  the  bridge, 
I'll  tell  you  a  story,  once  a  day." 

This  had  been  the  beginning  of  romance  to  Jan-an. 

The  story-telling,  thus  agreed  upon,  opened  a  new  op^ 
portunity  for  meeting  Mary-Clare.  Quite  naturally  she 
shared  with  Noreen  and  Jan-an  the  hours  of  the  late  after- 
noon walks  in  the  woods  or,  occasionally,  by  the  fireside  of 
her  own  home  when  the  chilly  gloaming  fell  early. 

Often  Northrup,  casting  a  hurried  thought  to  his  past, 
and  then  forward  to  the  time  when  all  this  pleasure  must  end, 
looked  thoughtful.  How  circumscribed  those  old  days  had 
been;  how  uneventful  at  the  best!  How  strange  the  old 
ways  would  seem  by  and  by,  touched  by  the  glamour  of 
what  he  was  passing  through  now! 

And,  as  was  often  the  case,  Manly's  words  came  out  like 


I36  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

guiding  and  warning  flashes.  The  future  could  only  be  made 
safe  by  the  present;  the  past — well!  Northrup  would  not 
dwell  upon  that.  He  would  keep  the  compact  with  him- 
self. 

He  went  boldly  to  the  yellow  house  when  the  mood  seized 
him.  His  first  encounters  with  Mary-Clare,  after  that  night 
at  the  inn  when  he  had  watched  her  sleeping,  had  reassured 
him. 

"She  was  not  awake!"  he  concluded.  The  belief  made  it 
possible  for  him  to  act  with  assurance. 

Peter  and  Polly  preserved  a  discreet  silence  concerning 
affairs  in  the  Forest.  "You  never  can  tell  when  a  favouring 
wind  will  right  things  again,"  Polly  remarked.  She  cared 
more  for  Mary-Clare  than  anything  else. 

"Or  upset  'em,"  Peter  added.  He  had  his  mind  fixed 
upon  Maclin. 

"Well,  brother,  sailing  safe,  or  struggling  in  the  water,  it 
won't  help  matters  to  stir  up  the  mud." 

"No;  and  just  having  Brace  hanging  around  like  a  threat 
is  something.  I  alias  did  hold  to  them  referendum  and  recall 
notions.  Once  a  feller  knows  he  ain't  the  only  shirt  in  the 
laundry,  he  keeps  decenter.  So  long  as  Maclin  scents 
Brace,  he  keeps  to  his  holdings.  Did  yer  hear  how  he's 
cleaning  up  the  Cosey  Bar?  He  thinks  maybe  he's  going 
to  be  attacked  from  that  quarter.  Then,  again,  he's  been 
offering  work  to  the  men  around  here — and  he's  letting 
out  that  he  never  understood  our  side  of  things  rightly  and 
that  he's  listening  to  Larry — get  that,  Polly? — listening  to 
Larry  and  letting  him  make  the  folks  on  the  Point  get 
on  to  the  fact  that  he's  their  friend.  Gosh!  Maclin  their 
friend." 

And  Mary-Clare  all  this  time  mystified  her  friends  and 
her  foes.  She  had  foes.  Men,  and  women,  too,  who  looked 
askance  at  her.  The  less  they  knew,  the  more  they  had  to 
invent.  The  proprieties  of  the  Forest  were  being  outraged. 
The  women  who  envied  Mary-Clare  her  daring  fell  upon  her 
first.  From  their  own  misery  and  disillusionment,  they 
sought  to  defend  their  position;  create  an  atmosphere  of 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  137 

virtue  around  their  barren  lives,  by  attacking  the  woman 
who  refused  to  be  a  martyr. 

"You  can't  tell  me,"  said  a  downtrodden  wife  of  one  of 
Maclin's  men,  "that  she  turned  her  husband  out  of  doors 
after  wheedling  him  out  of  all  he  should  have  had  from  his 
father,  unless  she  meant  to  leave  the  door  open  for  another! 
A  woman  only  acts  as  she  has  for  some  man." 

The  women,  the  happy  ones,  drove  down  upon  Mary- 
Clare  from  another  quarter.  The  happy  women  are  always 
first  to  lay  down  the  laws  for  the  unhappy  ones.  Not 
knowing,  they  are  irresponsible.  The  men  of  the  Forest 
did  some  laughing  and  side  talking,  but  on  the  whole  they 
denounced  Mary-Clare  because  she  was  a  menace  to  the 
Established  Code. 

"God!"  said  the  speaker  of  the  Cosey  Bar,  "what's  coming 
to  the  world,  anyhow?  There  ain't  any  rest  and  peace  no- 
wheres,  and  when  it  comes  to  women  taking  to  naming 
terms,  I  say  it's  time  for  us  to  stand  for  our  rights  fierce." 

Maclin  had  delicately  and  indirectly  set  forth  Mary- 
Clare's  "terms"  and  the  Forest  was  staggered. 

But  Mary-Clare  either  did  not  hear,  or  the  turmoil  was  so 
insistent  that  she  had  become  used  to  it.  She  suddenly 
displayed  an  energy  that  made  her  former  activities  seem 
tame. 

She  brought  from  the  attic  an  old  loom  and  got  Aunt  Polly 
to  teach  her  to  weave;  she  presently  designed  quaint  patterns 
and  delighted  in  her  work.  She  invited  several  children, 
neglected  little  souls,  to  come  to  the  yellow  house  and  she 
taught  them  with  Noreen.  She  resorted  largely  to  the 
method  the  old  doctor  had  used  with  her.  Adapting,  as  she 
saw  possible,  her  knowledge  to  her  little  group,  she  gave  gen- 
erously but  held  her  peace. 

Northrup  often  had  a  hearty  laugh  after  attending  one  of 
the  "school"  sessions. 

"It's  like  tossing  all  kinds  of  feed  to  a  flock  of  birds," 
he  told  Aunt  Polly,  "and  letting  the  little  devils  pick  as  they 
can." 

"  I  reckon  they  pick  only  as  much  as  their  little  stomachs 


138  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

can  hold,"  Aunt  Polly  replied,  "and  it  makes  me  smile  to 
notice  how  folks  as  ain't  above  saying  lies  about  Mary-Clare 
can  trust  their  children  to  her  teaching." 

"Oh!  well,  lies  are  soon  killed,"  Northrup  returned,  but 
his  smile  vanished. 

Mary-Clare  was  often  troubled  by  Larry's  persistence  at 
the  Point.  She  could  not  account  for  it,  but  she  did  not  alter 
her  own  way  of  life.  She  went,  occasionally,  to  the  desolate 
Point;  she  rarely  saw  Larry,  but  if  she  did,  she  greeted  him 
pleasantly.  It  was  amazing  to  find  how  naturally  she  could 
do  this.  Indeed  the  whole  situation  was  at  the  snapping 
point. 

"I  do  say,"  Twombley  confided  to  Peneluna,  "it  don't  seem 
nater  for  a  woman  not  to  grieve  and  fuss  at  such  goings  on." 

Peneluna  tossed  her  head  and  sneezed. 

"I  ain't  ever  understood,"  she  broke  in,  "why  a  woman 
should  fuss  and  break  herself  on  account  of  a  man  doing 
what  he  oughtn't  ter  do.  Let  him  do  the  fussing  and  break- 
ing." 

"She  might  try  and  save  him."  Twombley,  like  all  the 
male  Forest,  was  stirred  at  what  he  could  not  understand. 

"Women  have  got  their  hands  full  of  other  things" — Pene- 
luna sneezed  again  as  if  the  dust  of  ages  was  stifling  her — 
"and  I  do  say  that  after  a  woman  does  save  a  man,  she's 
often  too  worn  out  to  enjoy  her  savings." 

And  Larry,  carefully  dressed,  living  alone  and  to  all  ap- 
pearances brave  and  steady,  simply,  according  to  Maclin's 
ordering,  "let  out  more  sheet  rope"  in  order  that  Mary- 
Clare  might  sail  on  to  the  rocks  and  smash  herself  to  atoms 
before  the  eyes  of  her  fellow  creatures. 

Surely  the  Forest  had  much  to  cogitate  upon. 

"There  is  just  one  ledge  of  rocks  for  her  kind,"  said  Mac- 
lin.  "You  keep  yourself  clear  and  safe,  Rivers,  and  watch 
the  wreck." 

Maclin  could  be  most  impressive  at  times  and  his  conver- 
sation had  a  nautical  twist  that  was  quite  effective. 

Northrup  at  this  time  would  have  been  shocked  beyond 
measure  had  anyone  suggested  that  his  own  attitude  of  mind 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  139 

resembled  in  the  slightest  degree  that  of  Maclin,  Twombley, 
and  Rivers.  He  was  too  sane  and  decent  a  man  to  consider 
for  a  moment  that  Mary-Clare's  actions  were  based  in  the 
slightest  degree  upon  his  presence  in  the  Forest.  He  knew 
that  he  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter,  but  that  was 
no  reason  for  thinking  that  he  might  not  have.  Suggestion 
was  enmeshing  him  in  the  disturbance. 

He  felt  that  Larry  was  a  brute.  That  he  had  the  outer 
covering  of  respectability  counted  against  him.  Larry  al- 
ways kept  his  best  manners  for  public  exhibition;  his  inheri- 
tance of  refinement  could  be  tapped  at  any  convenient  hour. 
Northrup  knew  his  type.  He  had  not  recalled  his  father  in 
years  as  he  did  now!  A  man  legally  sustained  by  his  inter- 
pretation of  marriage  could  make  a  hell  or  a  heaven  of  any 
woman's  life.  This  truism  took  on  new  significance  in  the 
primitive  Forest. 

But  in  that  Mary-Clare  had  had  courage  to  escape  from 
hell — and  Northrup  had  pictured  it  all  from  memories  of  his 
boyhood — roused  him  to  admiration. 

She  was  of  the  mettle  of  his  mother.  She  might  be  bent 
but  never  broken.  She  was  treading  a  path  that  none  of  her 
little  world  had  ever  trod  before.  Alone  in  the  Forest  she 
had  taken  a  stand  that  she  could  not  hope  would  be  under- 
stood, and  how  superbly  she  was  holding  it! 

Knowing  what  he  did,  Northrup  compared  Mary-Clare 
with  the  women  of  his  acquaintance;  what  one  of  them  could 
defy  their  conventions  as  she  was  doing,  instinctively,  cour^ 
ageously  ? 

"But  she  ought  not  to  be  permitted  to  think  all  men  are 
like  Rivers!" 

This  thought  grew  upon  Northrup,  and  it  was  the  first 
step,  generously  taken,  to  establish  higher  ideals  for  his  sex. 
With  the  knowledge  he  had,  he  was  in  a  position  of  safety. 
Not  to  be  seen  with  Mary-Clare  while  the  silly  gossip  mut- 
tered or  whispered  would  be  to  acknowledge  a  reason  for  not 
meeting  her — so  he  flung  caution  to  the  winds. 

There  were  nutting  parties  for  the  children — innocent 
enough,  heaven  knew!  There  were  thrilling  camping  suppers 


140  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

on  the  flat  ridge  of  the  hills  in  order  to  watch  the  miracle  of 
sunset  and  moonrise. 

No  wonder  Jan-an  cast  her  lot  in  with  those  headed,  so  the 
whisper  ran,  for  perdition.  She  had  never  been  so  nearly 
happy  in  her  life;  neither  had  Mary-Clare  nor  Noreen  nor — 
though  he  did  not  own  it — Northrup,  himself. 

No  wonder  Maclin,  and  the  outraged  Larry,  saw  dis- 
tinctly the  ridge  on  which  the  wreck  was  to  occur. 

But  no  one  was  taking  into  account  that  idealism  in  Mary- 
Clare  that  the  old  doctor  had  devoutly  hoped  would  save  her, 
not  destroy  her.  Northrup  began  to  comprehend  it  during 
the  more  intimate  conversations  that  took  place  when  the 
children,  playing  apart,  left  him  and  Mary-Clare  alone. 
The  wonder  grew  upon  him  and  humbled  him.  It  was 
something  he  had  never  encountered  before.  A  philosophy 
and  code  built  entirely  upon  knowledge  gained  from  books 
and  interpreted  by  a  singular  strength  and  purity  of  mind. 
It  piqued  Northrup;  he  began  to  test  it,  never  estimating 
danger  for  himself. 

"Books  are  like  people,"  Mary-Clare  said  one  day — she 
was  watching  Northrup  build  a  campfire  and  the  last  bit  of 
sunlight  fell  full  upon  her — "the  words  are  the  costumes." 
She  had  marked  the  surprised  look  in  Northrup's  eyes  as  she 
quoted  rather  a  bald  sentiment  from  an  old  book. 

"Yes,  of  course,  and  that's  sound  reasoning."  For  a  mo- 
ment Northrup  felt  as  though  a  clear  north  wind  were  blow- 
ing away  the  dust  in  an  overlooked  corner  of  his  mind. 
"But  it's  rather  staggering  to  find  that  you  read  French," 
he  added,  for  the  quotation  had  been  literally  translated. 
"You  do,  don't  you?" 

"  I  do,  a  little.     I'm  taking  it  up  again  for  Noreen." 

Noreen's  name  was  continually  being  brought  into  focus. 
It  had  the  effect  of  pushing  Northrup,  metaphorically,  into  a 
safe  zone.  He  resented  this. 

"She  is  afraid!"  he  thought.  "Rivers  has  left  his  mark 
upon  her  mind,  damn  him!" 

This  sentiment  should  have  given  warning,  but  it  did 
not. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  141 

"I  study  nights" — Mary-Clare  was  speaking  quite  as  if 
fear  had  no  part  in  her  thought — "French,  mathematics- 
all  the  hard  things  that  went  in  and — stuck." 

"Hard  things  do  stick,  don't  they?"  Northrup  hated  the 
pushed-aside  feeling. 

"Terribly.  But  my  doctor  was  adamant  about  hard 
things.  He  used  to  say  that  I'd  learn  to  love  chipping  off  the 
rough  corners."  Here  Mary-Clare  laughed,  and  the  sound 
set  Northrup's  nerves  a-tingle  as  the  clear  notes  of  music  did. 

"I  can  see  myself  now,  Mr.  Northrup,  sitting  behind  my 
doctor  on  his  horse,  my  book  flattened  out  against  his  back. 
I'd  ask  questions;  he'd  fling  the  answers  to  me.  Once  I 
drew  the  map  of  Italy  on  his  blessed  old  shoulders  with  crayon 
and  often  French  verbs  ran  crookedly  up  the  seam  of  his 
coat,  for  the  horse  changed  his  gait  now  and  then." 

Northrup  laughed  aloud.  He  edged  away  from  his  isola- 
tion and  said: 

"Your  doctor  was  a  remarkable  man.  His  memory  lives 
in  the  Forest;  it's  about  the  most  vital  thing  here.  It  and  all 
that  preserves  it."  His  eyes  rested  upon  Mary-Clare. 

"Yes.  He  was  wonderful.  Lately  he  seems  more  alive 
than  ever.  He  had  such  simple  rules  of  life — but  they  work. 
He  told  me  so  often  that  when  a  trouble  or  anything  like 
that  came,  there  were  but  two  ways  to  meet  it.  If  it  was 
going  to  kill  you,  die  at  your  best.  If  it  wasn't,  get  over  it 
at  once-,  never  waste  time — live  as  soon  as  possible."  Was 
there  a  note  of  warning  in  the  words? 

"And  you're  doing  it?" 

An  understanding  look  passed  between  them. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Northrup,  for  Noreen." 

Back  went  Northrup  to  his  place  with  a  dull  thud!  Then 
Mary-Clare  hurried  to  a  safer  subject. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  about  your  book,  Mr.  Northrup. 
I  have  the  strangest  feeling  about  it.  It  seems  like  a  new 
kind  of  flower  growing  in  the  Forest.  I  love  flowers." 

Northrup  looked  down  at  his  companion.  Her  bared  head, 
her  musing,  radiant  face  excited  and  moved  him.  He  had 
forgotten  his  book. 


142  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"You're  rather  like  a  strange  growth  yourself,"  he  said 
daringly. 

Mary-Clare  smiled  gaily. 

"You'll  have  to  blame  my  old  doctor  for  that,"  she  said. 

"Or  bless  him,"  Northrup  broke  in. 

"Yes,  that's  better,  if  it  is  true." 

"It's  tremendously  true." 

"A  book" — again  that  elusive  push — "must  be  a  great 
responsibility.  Once  you  put  your  thoughts  and  words  down 
and  send  them  out — there  you  are!" 

"  Yes.     Good  Lord !    There  you  are.* 

"I  knew  that  you  would  feel  that  way  about  it  and  that 
is  why  I  would  like  to  hear  you  talk  of  it.  It's  a  story,  isn't 
it?" 

"Yes,  a  story." 

"You  can  reach  further  with  a  story." 

"I  suppose  so.  You  do  not  have  to  knuckle  down  to 
rules.  You  can  let  your  vision  have  a  say,  and  your  feel- 
ings." Northrup,  seeing  that  his  book  must  play  a  part, 
accepted  that  fact. 

"I  suppose" — Mary-Clare  was  looking  wistfully  up  at 
Northrup — "all  the  people  in  your  books  work  out  what  you 
believe  is  truth.  I  can  always  feel  truth  in  a  book — or  the 
lack  of  it." 

In  the  near  distance  Noreen  and  Jan-an  were  gathering 
wood.  They  were  singing  and  shouting  lustily. 

"May  I  sit  on  your  log?"     Northrup  spoke  hurriedly. 

"Of  course,"  and  Mary-Clare  moved  a  little.  "The  sun's 
gone,"  she  went  on.  "It's  quite  dark  in  the  valley." 

"It's  still  light  here — and  there's  the  fire."  Northrup  was 
watching  the  face  beside  him. 

"Yes,  the  fire,  and  presently  the  moon  rising,  just  over 
there." 

Restraint  lay  between  the  two  on  the  mossy  log.  They 
both  resented  it. 

"You  know,  you  must  know,  that  I'd  rather  have  you 
share  my  book  than  any  one  else."  Northrup  spoke  almost 
roughly. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  143 

He  had  meant  to  say  something  quite  different,  but  any- 
thing would  do  so  long  as  he  controlled  the  situation. 

"I  wonder  why?"  Mary-Clare  kept  her  face  turned  away. 

"Well,  you  are  so  phenomenally  keen.  You  know  such  a 
lot." 

"I  used  to  snap  up  everything  like  a  hungry  puppy,  Uncle 
Peter  often  said.  I  suppose  I  do  now,  Mr.  Northrup,  but  I 
only  know  life  as  a  blind  person  does:  I  feel." 

"That's  just  it.  You  feel  life.  It  isn't  coloured  for  you 
by  others.  You  get  its  form,  its  hardness  or  softness,  its 
fragrance  or  the  reverse,  but  you  fix  your  own  colour.  That's 
why  you'd  be  such  a  ripping  critic.  Will  you  let  me  read 
some  of  my  book  to  you?" 

"Oh!  of  course.     I'd  be  so  glad  and  proud." 

"Come,  now,  you're  not  joking?" 

The  large  golden  eyes  turned  slowly  and  rested  upon 
Northrup. 

"I  do  not  think  I  ever  joke" — Mary-Clare's  words  fell 
softly — "  about  such  things.  Why,  it  would  seem  like  seeing  a 
soul  get  into  a  body.  You  do  not  joke  about  that." 

"You  make  me  horribly  afraid  about  my  book.  People  do 
not  usually  take  the  writing  of  a  book  in  just  that  way." 

"I  wish  they  did.  You  see,  my  doctor  often  said  that 
books  would  live  if  they  only  held  truth.  He  loved  these 
words,  'And  above  all  else — Truth  taketh  away  the  victory!' 
I  can  see  him  now  waving  his  arms  and  singing  that  de- 
fiantly, as  if  he  were  challenging  the  whole  world.  He  said 
that  truth  was  the  soul  of  things." 

"But  who  knows  Truth?" 

"There  is  something  in  us  that  knows  it.  Don't  you  think 
so?" 

"  But  we  see  it  so  differently." 

"That  does  not  matter,  if  we  know  it!  Truth  is  fixed 
and  sure.  Isn't  that  so?" 

"I  do  not  know.  Sometimes  I  think  so:  then — good  Lord! 
that  is  what  I'm  trying  to  find  out." 

Northrup's  face  grew  tense. 

"And  so  am  I." 


144  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"All  right,  then,  let's  go  on  the  quest  together!"  Northrup 
stood  up  and  offered  his  hand  to  Mary-Clare  as  if  actually 
they  were  to  start  on  the  pilgrimage.  "Where  and  when 
may  I  begin  to  read  to  you?" 

The  children  were  coming  nearer. 

"While  this  weather  lasts,  I'd  love  the  open.  Wouldn't 
you?  Logs,  like  this,  are  such  perfect  places." 

"I  thought  perhaps" — Northrup  looked  what  he  dared 
not  voice — "I  thought  perhaps  in  that  cabin  of  yours  we 
might  be  more  comfortable,  more  undisturbed." 

Mary-Clare  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"No,  I  think  it  would  be  impossible.  That  cabin  is  too 
full — well,  I'm  sure  I  could  not  listen  as  I  should,  to  you,  in 
that  cabin." 

And  so  it  was  that  the  book  became  the  medium  of  ex- 
pression to  Northrup  and  Mary-Clare.  It  justified  that 
which  might  otherwise  have  been  impossible.  It  drugged 
them  both  to  any  sense  of  actual  danger.  It  was  like  a 
shield  behind  which  they  might  advance  and  retreat  un- 
seen and  unharmed.  And  if  the  shield  ever  fell  for  an 
unguarded  moment,  Northrup  believed  that  he  alone  was 
vouchsafed  clear  vision. 

He  grew  to  marvel  at  the  simplicity  and  purity  of  Mary- 
Clare's  point  of  view.  He  knew  that  she  must  have  gone 
through  some  gross  experiences  with  a  man  like  Rivers,  but 
they  had  left  her  singularly  untouched. 

But,  while  Northrup,  believing  himself  shielded  from  the 
woman  near  him,  permitted  his  imagination  full  play,  Mary- 
Clare  drew  her  own  conclusions.  She  accepted  Northrup 
without  question  as  far  as  he  personally  was  concerned.  He 
was  making  her  life  rich  and  full,  but  he  would  soon  pass; 
become  a  memory  to  brighten  the  cold,  dark  years  ahead, 
just  as  the  memory  of  the  old  doctor  had  done:  would  always 
do. 

Desperately  Mary-Clare  clung  to  this  thought,  and  rein- 
forced by  it  referred  constantly  to  her  own  position  as  if  to 
convince  Northrup  of  perfect  understanding  of  their  relations. 

But  the  book!    That  was  another  matter.     In  that  she  felt 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  145 

she  dared  contemplate  the  real  nature  of  Northrup.  She  be- 
lieved he  was  unconsciously  revealing  himself,  and  with  that 
keenness  of  perception  that  Northrup  had  detected,  she 
threshed  the  false  notes  from  the  true  and,  while  hesitating 
to  express  herself — for  she  was  timid  and  naturally  distrustful 
of  herself — she  was  being  prepared  for  an  hour  when  her  best 
would  be  demanded  of  her. 

Silently  Mary-Clare  would  sit  and  listen  while  Northrup 
read.  Without  explanation,  the  children  had  been  elimi- 
nated and,  if  the  day  was  too  cool  to  sit  by  the  trail  side,  they 
would  walk  side  by  side,  the  crushed  leaves  making  a  soft 
carpet  for  their  feet;  the  falling  leaves  touching  them  gently 
as  they  were  brushed  from  their  slight  holdings. 

Mary-Clare  had  suddenly  abandoned  her  rough  boyish 
garb.  She  was  sweet  and  womanly  in  her  plain  little  gown — 
and  a  long  coat  whose  high  collar  rose  around  her  grave  face. 
She  wore  no  hat  and  the  light  and  shade  did  marvellous 
things  to  her  hair.  There  were  times  when  Northrup  could 
not  take  his  eyes  from  that  shining  head. 

"Why  are  you  stopping?"  Mary-Clare  would  ask  at  such 
lapses. 

"My  writing  is  diabolical!"  Northrup  lied. 

"Oh!  I'm  sorry.    The  stops  give  me  a  jog.     Go  on." 

And  Northrup  would  go  on! 

Without  fully  being  aware  of  it,  until  the  thing  was  done, 
Mary-Clare  got  vividly  into  the  story. 

And  Northrup  was  doing  some  good,  some  daring  work. 
His  man,  born  from  his  own  doubts,  aspirations,  and  crav- 
ings, was  a  live  and  often  a  blundering  creature  who  could  not 
be  disregarded.  He  was  safe  enough,  but  it  was  the  woman 
who  now  gave  trouble. 

Northrup  saw,  with  fear  and  trembling,  that  he  had  drawn 
her,  so  he  devoutly  believed,  so  close  to  reality  that  he  felt 
that  Mary-Clare  would  discover  her  at  once  and  resent  the 
impertinence.  But  he  need  not  have  held  any  such  thought. 
Mary-Clare  was  far  too  impersonal;  far  too  absorbed  a  nature 
to  be  largely  concerned  with  herself,  and  Northrup  had  failed 
absolutely  in  his  deductions,  as  he  was  soon  to  learn. 


146  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

What  Mary-Clare  did  see  in  Northrup's  heroine  was  a 
maddening  possibility  that  he  was  letting  slip  through  his 
fingers.  At  first  this  puzzled  her;  pained  her.  She  was  still 
timid  about  expressing  her  feeling.  But  so  strong  was  North- 
rup's touch  in  most  of  his  work  that  at  last  he  drove  his  quiet, 
silent  critic  from  her  moorings.  She  asked  that  she  might 
have  a  copy  of  a  certain  part  of  the  book. 

"I  want  to  think  it  out  with  my  woman-brain,"  she  laugh- 
ingly explained.  "When  you  read  right  at  this  spot — well, 
you  see,  it  doesn't  seem  clear.  When  I  have  thought  it  out 
alone,  then  I  will  tell  you  and  be — oh!  very  bold." 

And  Northrup  had  complied. 

He  had  blazed  for  himself,  some  time  before,  a  roundabout 
trail  through  the  briery  underbrush  from  the  inn  to  within  a 
few  hundred  feet  of  the  cabin.  Often  he  watched  from  this 
hidden  limit.  He  saw  the  smoke  rise  from  the  chimney; 
once  or  twice  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Mary-Clare  sitting  at  the 
rough  table,  and,  after  she  had  taken  those  chapters  away,  he 
knew  they  were  being  read  there. 

Alone,  waiting,  expecting  he  knew  not  what,  Northrup 
became  alarmingly  aware  that  Mary-Clare  had  got  a  tre- 
mendous hold  upon  him.  The  knowledge  was  almost  stagger- 
ing.  He  had  felt  so  sure;  had  risked  so  much. 

He  could  not  deceive  himself  any  longer.  Like  other  men, 
he  had  played  with  fire  and  had  been  burnt.  "  But,"  he 
devoutly  thought,  "thank  God,  I  have  started  no  conflagra- 
tion." " 


CHAPTER  XI 

THERE  had  been  five  days  in  which  to  face  a  rather 
ugly  and  bald  fact  before  Northrup  again  saw  Mary- 
Clare.  He  had  employed  the  time,  he  tried  to  make 
himself  believe,  wisely,  sanely. 

He  had  spent  a  good  portion  of  it  at  the  Point.  He  had 
irritated  Larry  beyond  endurance  by  friendly  overtures. 
In  an  effort  to  be  just,  he  tried  to  include  Rivers  in  his  recon- 
struction. The  truth,  he  sternly  believed,  would  never  be 
known,  but  if  it  were,  certainly  Rivers  might  have  something 
to  say  for  himself,  and  with  humiliation  Northrup  regarded 
himself  "as  other  men."  He  had  never,  thank  heaven! 
looked  upon  himself  as  better  than  other  men,  but  he  had 
thought  his  struggle,  early  in  life,  his  unhappy  parenthood, 
and  later  devotion  to  his  work,  had  set  him  apart  from  the 
general  temptations  of  many  young  men  and  had  given  him 
a  distaste  for  follies  that  could  hold  no  suggestion  of  mystery 
for  him. 

Well,  Fate  had  merely  bided  its  time. 

With  every  reason  for  escaping  a  pitfall,  he  had  floundered 
in.  "Like  other  men?"  Northrup  sneered  at  himself.  No 
other  man  could  be  such  a  consummate  fool,  knowing  what 
he  knew. 

Viewed  from  this  position,  Larry  was  not  as  contemptible 
as  he  had  once  appeared. 

But  Rivers  resented  Northrup's  advances,  putting  the 
lowest  interpretation  upon  them.  In  this  he  was  upheld  by 
Maclin,  who  was  growing  restive  under  the  tension  that  did 
not  break,  but  stretched  endlessly  on. 

Northrup  resolved  to  see  Mary-Clare  once  more  and  then 
go  home.  He  would  make  sure  that  the  fire  he  himself  was 
scorched  by  had  not  touched  her.  After  that  he  would  turn 

H7 


i48  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

his  back  upon  the  golden  selah  in  his  life  and  return  to  his 
niche  in  the  wall. 

This  brought  his  mother  and  Kathryn  into  the  line  of 
vision.  How  utterly  he  had  betrayed  their  confidence! 
His  whole  life,  from  now  on,  should  be  devoted  to  their 
service.  Doubtless  to  other  men,  like  himself,  there  were 
women  who  were  never  forgotten,  but  that  must  not  blot 
out  reality. 

And  then  Northrup  considered  the  task  of  unearthing 
Maclin's  secrets,  and  ridding  the  Forest  of  that  subtle  fear 
and  distrust  that  the  man  created.  That  was,  however,  too 
big  an  undertaking  now.  He  must  get  Twombley  to  watch 
and  report.  Northrup  had  a  great  respect  for  Twombley's 
powers  of  observation. 

And  so  the  time  on  the  Point  had  been  put  to  some  pur- 
pose, and  it  had  occupied  Northrup.  Noreen  and  Jan-an 
had  helped,  too.  It  was  rather  tragic  the  way  Northrup  had 
grown  to  feel  about  Noreen.  The  child  had  developed  his 
latent  love  for  children — they  had  never  figured  in  his  life 
before.  So  much  had  been  left  out,  now  that  he  came  to 
think  of  it! 

And  Jan-an.  Poor  groping  creature!  To  have  gained 
her  affection  and  trust  meant  a  great  deal. 

Then  the  Heathcotes!  Polly  and  Peter!  During  those 
five  distraught  days  they  developed  halos  in  Northrup's 
imagination. 

They  had  taken  him  in,  a  stranger.  They  had  fathered 
and  mothered  him;  staunchly  and  silently  stood  by  him. 
What  if  they  knew? 

They  must  never  know!     He  would  make  sure  of  that. 

In  this  frame  of  mind,  chastened  and  determined,  Northrup 
on  the  fifth  day  took  his  place  behind  the  laurel  clump  back 
of  Mary-Clare's  cabin,  and  to  his  relief  saw  her  coming  out 
of  the  door.  His  manuscript  was  not  in  her  hands,  but  her 
face  had  an  uplifted  and  luminous  look  that  set  his  heart  to  a 
quicker  pulsing. 

After  a  decent  length  of  time,  Northrup,  whistling  care- 
lessly, scruffing  the  dead  leaves  noiselessly,  followed  on  and 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  149 

overtook  Mary-Clare  near  the  log  upon  which  they  had  sat 
at  their  last  meeting. 

The  quaint  poise  and  dignity  of  the  girl  was  the  first  im- 
pression Northrup  always  got.  He  had  never  quite  grown 
accustomed  to  it;  it  was  like  a  challenge — his  impulse  was  to 
test  it.  It  threatened  his  exalted  state  now. 

"It's  quite  mysterious,  isn't  it?" 

Mary-Clare  sat  down  on  her  end  of  the  log  and  looked  up, 
her  eyes  twinkling. 

"What  is  mysterious?"  Northrup  took  his  place.  The 
log  was  not  a  long  one. 

"The  way  we  manage  to  meet." 

She  was  setting  him  at  a  safe  distance  in  that  old  way  of 
hers  that  somehow  made  her  seem  so  young. 

It  irritated  Northrup  now  as  it  never  had  before. 

He  had  prepared  himself  for  an  ordeal,  was  keyed  to  a 
high  note,  and  the  quiet,  smiling  girl  near  him  made  it  all 
seem  a  farce. 

This  was  dangerous.     Northrup  relaxed. 

"It's  been  nearly  a  week  since  I  saw  you,"  he  said,  and  let 
his  eyes  rest  upon  Mary-Clare's  face. 

"Yes,  nearly  a  week,"  she  said  softly,  "but  it  took  me  all 
that  time  to  make  up  my  mind." 

"About  what?" 

"Your  book." 

Northrup  had  forgotten,  for  the  moment,  his  book,  and 
he  resented  its  introduction. 

"Damn  the  book!"  he  thought.  Aloud  he  said:  "Of  course! 
You  were  going  to  tell  me  where  I  have  fallen  down." 

"I  hope  you  are  not  making  a  joke  of  it" — Mary-Clare's 
face  flushed — "  but  even  if  you  are,  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
what  I  think.  I  must,  you  know." 

"That's  awfully  good  of  you" — Northrup  became  earnest 
— "but  it  doesn't  matter  now,  I  am  going  away.  Let  us  talk 
of  something  else." 

Mary-Clare  took  this  in  silence.  The  only  evidence  of 
her  surprise  showed  in  the  higher  touch  of  colour  that  rose, 
then  died  out,  leaving  her  almost  pale. 


ISO  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"Then,  there  is  all  the  more  reason  why  I  must  tell  you 
what  I  think,"  she  said  at  last. 

The  words  came  like  sharp  detached  particles;  they  hurt. 

"We  must  talk  about  the  book!" 

And  Northrup  suddenly  caught  the  truth.  The  book  was 
their  common  language.  Only  through  that  could  they 
reach  each  other,  understandingly. 

"All  right!"  he  murmured,  and  turned  his  face  away. 

"It's  your  woman,"  Mary-Clare  began  with  a  sharp  catch, 
ing  of  her  breath  as  if  she  had  been  running.  "Your  woman 
is  not  real." 

Northrup  flushed.  He  was  foolishly  and  suddenly  angry. 
If  the  book  must  be  brought  in,  he  would  defend  it.  It  was 
all  that  was  left  to  him  of  this  detached  interlude  of  his 
life.  He  meant  to  keep  it.  It  was  one  thing  to  live  along  in 
his  story  and  daringly  see  how  close  he  could  come  to  reveal- 
ment  with  the  keen-witted  girl  who  had  inspired  him,  but 
quite  another,  now  that  he  was  going,  beaten  from  the  field, 
to  have  the  book,  as  a  book,  assailed.  As  to  books,  he  knew 
his  business! 

"You  put  your  words  in  your  woman's  mouth,"  Mary 
Clare  was  saying. 

"And  whose  words,  pray,  should  I  put  there?"  Northrup 
asked  huskily. 

"You  must  let  her  speak  for  herself." 

"Good  Lord!" 

Mary-Clare  did  not  notice  the  interruption.  She  was 
doing  battle  for  more  than  Northrup  guessed.  She  hoped 
he  would  never  know  the  truth,  but  the  battle  must  be 
fought  if  all  the  beautiful  weeks  of  joy  were  to  be  saved  for 
the  future.  The  idealism  that  the  old  doctor  had  desperately 
hoped  might  save,  not  destroy,  Mary-Clare  was  to  prove  it- 
self now. 

"There  are  so  many  endings  in  life,  that  it  is  hard,  in  a 
book,  to  choose  just  one.  Why  should  there  be  an  end  to  a 
book?"  she  asked. 

The  question  came  falteringly  and  Northrup  almost 
laughed. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  151 

"Go  on,  please,"  he  said  quietly.  "You  think  I've  ended 
my  woman  by  letting  her  do  what  any  woman  in  real  life 
would  do?" 

"All  women  would  not  do  what  your  woman  does.  Such 
women  end  men!" 

This  was  audacious,  but  it  caught  Northrup's  imagination. 

"Go  on,"  he  muttered  lamely. 

"Do  you  think  love  is  everything  to  a  woman?"  Mary- 
Clare  demanded  ferociously. 

"It  is  the  biggest  thing!"  Northrup  was  up  in  arms  to 
defend  his  code  and  his  work. 

"You  think  it  could  wipe  out  honour,  all  the  things  that 
meant  honour  to  her?" 

"Love  conquers  everything  for  a  woman." 

"Does  it  for  a  man?" 

Northrup  tried  to  fling  out  the  affirmative,  but  he  hedged. 

"Largely,  yes." 

"I  do  not  think  that.  There  are  some  things  bigger  to 
him.  Maybe  not  bigger,  but  things  that  he  would  choose 
instead  of  love,  if  he  had  to.  It  is  what  you  do  to  love 
that  matters.  If  you  come  and  take  it  when  you  haven't 
a  right  to  it;  when  you'd  be  stealing  it;  letting  other  sacred 
things  go  for  it — then  you  would  be  killing  love.  But  if  you 
honour  it,  even  if  it  is  lonely  and  often  sad,  it  lives  and  lives 
and " 

The  universe,  at  that  momentous  instant,  seemed  to 
rock  and  tremble.  Everything  was  swept  aside  as  by  a 
Force  that  but  bided  its  hour  and  had  taken  absolute  con- 
trol. 

Northrup  was  never  able  to  connect  the  two  edges  of  con- 
scious thought  that  were  riven  apart  by  the  blinding  stroke 
that  left  him  and  Mary-Clare  in  that  space  where  their  souls 
met.  But,  thank  God,  the  Force  was  not  evil;  it  was  but 
revealing. 

Northrup  drew  Mary-Clare  to  her  feet  and  held  her  little 
work-worn  hands  close. 

"You  are  crying — suffering,"  he  whispered. 

"Yes." 


152  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"And " 

"Oh!  please  wait" — the  deep  sobs  shook  the  girl — "you 
must  wait.  I'll  try  to — to  make  you  see.  I  was  awake  that 
night  at  the  inn — that  is  why  I — trust  you  now!  Why  I  want 
you  to — to  understand." 

She  seemed  pleading  with  him — it  made  him  wince;  she 
was  calling  forth  his  best  to  help  her  weakest. 

"Your  book" — Mary-Clare  gripped  that  again — "your 
book  is  a  beautiful,  live  thing — we  must  keep  it  so!  Your 
man  has  grown  and  grown  through  every  page  until  he  quite 
naturally  believed  he  was  able  to — to  do  more  than  any 
man  can  ever  do!  Why,  this  is  your  chance  to  be  different, 
stronger."  The  quick,  panting  words  ran  into  each  other 
and  then  Mary-Clare  controlled  them  while,  unheeded,  the 
tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  "You  must  let  your  woman 
act  for  herself!  She,  too,  must  learn  and  know.  She  made  a 
horrible  mistake  from  not  knowing  and  seeing  the  first  man; 
no  love  can  help  her  by  taking  the  solution  from  her.  She 
must  be  free — free  and  begin  again.  If  it  is  right " 

"Yes,  Mary-Clare.     If  it  is  right,  what  then?" 

Everything  seemed  to  wait  upon  the  answer.  The  scurry- 
ing wood  creatures  and  the  dropping  of  dead  leaves  alone 
broke  the  silence.  Slowly,  like  one  coming  into  consciousness, 
Mary-Clare  drew  one  hand  from  Northrup's,  wiped  her  eyes, 
and  then — let  it  fall  again  into  his! 

"I  can  see  clearer  now,"  she  faltered.  "Please,  please 
try  to  understand.  It  is  because  love  means  so  much  to  some 
women,  that  when  they  think  it  out  with  their  women-minds 
they  will  be  very  careful  of  it.  They  will  feel  about  it  as 
men  do  about  their  honour.  There  must  be  times  when  love 
must  stand  aside  if  they  want  to  keep  it!  I  know  how  queer 
and  crooked  all  this  must  sound,  but  men  do  not  stop  loving  if 
their  honour  makes  them  turn  from  it.  We  are  all,  men  and 
women,  too,  parts — we  cannot  act  as  if — oh!  you  do  under- 
stand, I  know  you  do,  and  some  day  you  will  go  on  with  your 
beautiful  book." 

"And  the  end  of  my  book,  Mary-Clare?  There  must  be 
an  end." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  153 

"I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  think  a  great  big  book  ever 
ends  any  more  than  life  ends." 

Northrup  was  swept  from  his  hard-wrought  position  at 
this.  The  next  wave  of  emotion  might  carry  him  higher, 
but  for  the  moment  he  was  drifting,  drifting. 

"You  do  not  know  life,  nor  men,  nor  women,"  he  said 
huskily  and  clutched  her  hands  in  his.  "If  life  cheats  and 
injures  you,  you  have  a  right  to  snatch  what  joy  you  can. 
It's  not  only  what  you  do  to  love,  but  what  you  do  to  your- 
self, that  counts.  For  real  love  can  stand  anything." 

"No,  it  cannot!"  Mary-Clare  tried  to  draw  away,  but  she 
felt  the  hold  tighten  on  her  hands;  "it  cannot  stand  dis- 
honour. That's  what  kills  it." 

"Dishonour!  What  is  dishonour?"  Northrup  asked  bit- 
terly. "I'm  going  to  prove  as  far  as  I  can,  in  my  book,  that 
the  right  kind  of  man  and  woman  with  a  big  enough  love 
can  throttle  life;  cheat  the  cheater."  This  came  defiantly. 

But  the  book  no  longer  served  its  purpose;  it  seemed  to 
fall  at  the  feet  of  the  man  and  woman,  standing  with  clasped 
hands  and  hungry,  desperate  eyes. 

The  words  that  might  have  changed  their  lives  were  never 
spoken,  for,  down  the  trail  gaily,  joyously,  came  the  sound  of 
Noreen's  voice,  shrilly  singing  one  of  the  songs  Northrup  had 
taught  her. 

"That's  what  I  mean  by  honour,"  Mary-Clare  whispered. 
"Noreen  and  all  that  she  is!  You,  you  do  understand  about 
some  women,  don't  you?  You  will  help,  not  hurt,  such 
women,  won't  you?" 

"For  God's  sake,  Mary-Clare,  don't  1" 

Northrup  bent  and  touched  his  lips  to  the  small  work- 
stained  hands.  The  song  down  the  trail  rose  joyously. 

"I  have  thought  of  you" — Mary-Clare  was  catching  her 
breath  sharply — "as  Noreen  has — a  man  brought  by  the 
haunted  wind.  It  has  all  been  like  a  wonderful  play.  I  have 
not  thought  of  the  place  where  you  belong,  but  I  know  there 
are  those  in  that  place  who  are  like  Noreen." 

"Yes!"  Northrup  shivered  and  flinched  as  a  cold,  wet 
leaf  fell  upon  his  hands  and  Mary-Clare's. 


154  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"The  wind  is  changing,"  said  the  woman.  "The  lovely 
autumn  has  been  kind  and  has  stayed  long." 

"My  dear,  my  dear — don't!"  Northrup  pleaded. 

"Oh!  but  I  must.  You  see  I  want  you  to  think  back, 
as  I  shall — at  all  this  as  great  happiness.  Come,  let  us 
go  down  the  trail.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  your  city, 
the  place  where  you  belong!  I  must  picture  you  there 
now." 

Northrup  kept  the  small  right  hand  in  his  as  they  turned. 
It  was  a  cold  hand  and  it  trembled  in  his  grasp,  but  there 
was  a  steel-like  quality  in  it,  too. 

It  was  tragic,  this  strength  of  the  girl  who  had  drawn  her 
understanding  of  life  from  hidden  sources.  Northrup  knew 
that  she  was  seeking  to  smooth  his  way  on  ahead;  to  take  the 
bitterness  from  a  memory  that,  without  her  sacrifice,  might 
hold  him  back  from  what  had  been,  was,  and  must  always 
be,  inevitable.  She  was  ignoring  the  weak,  tempted  mo- 
ment and  linking  the  past  with  all  that  the  future  must  hold 
for  them  both. 

There  was  only  the  crude,  simple  course  for  him  to  follow — 
to  accept  the  commonplace,  turn  and  face  life  as  one  turns 
from  a  grave  that  hides  a  beautiful  thing. 

"You  have  never  been  to  the  city?" 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  resort  to  words.  Superficial, 
foolish  words. 

"Yes,  once.     On  my  wedding  trip." 

This  was  unfortunate,  but  words  without  thought  are  wild 
things. 

Mary-Clare  hurried  along  while  visions  of  Larry's  city 
rose  like  smiting  rebukes  to  her  heedlessness.  Cheap  thea- 
tres, noisy  restaurants,  gaudy  lights. 

"My  dear  doctor  and  I  always  planned  going  together," 
she  said  brokenly.  "I  believe  there  are  many  cities  in  the 
city.  One  has  to  find  his  city  for  himself." 

"Yes,  that's  exactly  what  one  does."  Northrup  closed  his 
hand  closer  over  the  dead-cold  one  in  his  grasp. 

"Your  city,  it  must  be  wonderful." 

"It  will  be  a  haunted  city,  Mary-Clare." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  155 

"Tell  me  about  it.  And  tell  me  a  little,  if  you  don't  mind, 
about  your  people." 

The  bravery  was  almost  heart-breaking,  it  caused  North- 
rup's  lips  to  set  grimly. 

"There  is  my  mother,"  he  replied. 

"I'm  glad.     You  love  her  very  much?" 

"Very  much.  She's  wonderful.  My  father  died  long 
•*>•" 

Mary-Clare  did  not  ask  whether  he  loved  his  father  or  not, 
and  she  hurried  on: 

"And  now,  when  I  try  to  think  of  you  in  your  city,  at 
your  work,  just  how  shall  I  think  of  you  ?  Make  it  like  a 
picture." 

Northrup  struggled  with  himself.  The  girl  beside  him,  in 
pushing  him  from  her  life,  was  so  unutterably  sweet  and 
brave. 

"My  dear,  my  dear!"  he  whispered,  and  remorse,  pity> 
yearning  rang  in  the  words. 

"Make  it  like  a  picture!"  Relentlessly  the  words  were 
repeated.  They  demanded  that  he  give  his  best. 

"Think  of  a  high  little  room  in  a  tall  tower  overlooking 
all  cities,"  he  began  slowly,  "the  cheap,  the  beautiful,  the 
glad,  and  the  sad.  The  steam  and  smoke  roll  up  and  seem 
to  make  a  gauzy  path  upon  which  all  that  really  matters 
comes  and  goes  as  one  sits  and  watches." 

Mary-Clare's  eyes  were  wide  and  vision-filled. 

"Oh!  thank  you,"  she  whispered.  "I  shall  always  see  it 
and  you  so.  And  sometimes,  maybe  when  the  sun  is  going 
down,  as  it  is  now,  you  will  see  me  on  that  trail  that  is  just 
yours,  in  your  city  coming  to — to  wish  you  well ! " 

"Good  God!"  Northrup  shook  himself.  "What's  got  us 
two?  We've  worked  ourselves  into  a  pretty  state.  Talking 
as,  as  if — Mary-Clare,  I'm  not  going  away.  There  will  be 
other  days.  It's  that  book  of  mine.  Hang  it!  We've  got 
snarled  in  the  book." 

The  weak  efforts  to  ignore  everything  failed  pitifully. 

"No,  it  is  life."  Mary-Clare  grew  grim  as  Northrup 
relaxed.  "But  I  want  you  always  to  remember  my  old 


i56  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

doctor's  rule.  If  a  thing  is  going  to  kill  you,  die  bravely;  if  it 
isn't,  get  over  it  at  once  and  live  the  best  you  can." 

"God  bless  and  keep  you,  Mary-Clare."  Absolute  sur- 
render marked  the  tone. 

"He  will!" 

"But  this  is  not  good-bye!" 

"No,  it  is  not  good-bye." 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHILE  the  days  were  passing  and  Mary-Clare  and 
Northrup,  with  the  book  between  them  as  a  shield, 
fought  their  battle  and  won  their  victory,  they  had 
taken  small  heed  of  the  undercurrent  that  was  not  merely 
carrying  them  on,  but  bearing  others,  also. 

Northrup  was  comfortably  conscious  of  Aunt  Polly  and  old 
Peter,  at  the  days'  ends.  The  sense  of  going  home  to  them 
was  distinctly  a  joy,  a  fitting  and  safe  interlude. 

Noreen  and  Jan-an  supplied  the  light-comedy  touch,  for  the 
two  were  capable  of  supplying  no  end  of  fun  when  there  were 
hours  that  could  not  be  utilized  in  work  or  devoted  to  that 
thrilling  occupation  of  walking  the  trails  with  Mary-Clare. 

The  real,  sordid  tragedy  element  played  small  part  in  the 
autumn  idyl,  but  it  was  developing  none  the  less. 

Larry  on  the  Point  was  showing  more  patient  persistence 
than  one  could  have  expected.  He  went  about  Maclin's 
business  with  his  usual  reticence  and  devotion;  occasionally 
he  was  away  for  a  few  days;  when  he  was  at  home  in  Pene- 
luna's  shack  he  was  a  quiet,  rather  pathetic  figure  of  a  man 
at  loose  ends,  but  casting  no  slurs.  It  was  that  pacific 
attitude  of  his  that  got  on  the  nerves  of  his  doubters  and 
those  who  believed  they  understood  him. 

Peneluna,  torn  between  her  loyalty  to  Mary-Clare  and  the 
decency  she  felt  called  upon  to  show  the  old  doctor's  son,  was 
becoming  irritable  and  jerky.  Jan-an  shrank  from  her  and 
whimpered: 

"What  have  I  done?  Ain't  I  fetching  and  carrying  for 
him?" — she  nodded  heavily  toward  Larry's  abiding  place. 
"Ain't  I  watching  and  telling  yer  all  that  he  does?  Writing 
and  tearing  up  what  he  writes!  Ain't  I  showing  you  his 
scraps  what  don't  get  burned?  Ain't  I  acting  square?" 

157 


158  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Peneluna  softened. 

"Yes,  you  are!"  she  admitted.  "But  I  declare,  after 
finding  nothing  agin  him,  one  gets  to  wondering  if  there  is 
anything  agin  him.  I  don't  like  suspecting  my  feller 
creatures." 

"Suspectin'  ain't  like  murdering!"  Jan-an  blurted  out. 

"If  you  don't  stop  talking  like  that,  Jan-an "   But 

Peneluna  paused,  for  she  saw  the  frightened  look  creeping 
into  Jan-an's  dull  eyes. 

It  was  while  the  Point  was  agitated  about  Larry  that 
Twombley  brought  forth  his  gun  and  took  to  cleaning  it  and 
fondling  it  by  his  doorway.  This  action  of  Twombley's 
fascinated  Jan-an. 

"What  yer  going  to  shoot?"  she  asked. 

"Ducks,  maybe."     Twombley  leered  pleasantly. 

"I  wish  yer  wouldn't." 

"Why,  Jan-an?" 

"Ducks  ain't  so  used  to  it  as  chickens.  I  hate  to  see 
flying  things  as  can  fly  popped  over." 

At  this  Twombley  laughed  aloud. 

"All  right,  girl,  I'll  hunt  up  something  else  to  aim  at— 
something  that's  used  to  it.  I  ain't  saying  I'll  hit  anything, 
but  aimin'  and  finding  out  how  steady  yer  hand  is  ain't 
lacking  in  sport." 

So  Twombley  erected  a  target  and  enlivened  and  startled 
the  Point  by  his  practise.  Maclin,  after  a  few  weeks  of 
absence  from  the  Point,  called  occasionally  on  his  private 
agent  and  he  was  displeased  by  Twombley's  new  amusement. 

"What  in  thunder  are  you  up  to?"  he  asked. 

"Not  much — yet!"  Twombley  admitted.  "Don't  hit  the 
hole  more  than  once  out  of  four." 

"But  the  noise  is  bad  for  folks,  Twombley." 

"They  like  it,"  Twombley  broke  in.  "Makes  'em  jump 
and  know  they're  alive.  It's  like  fleas  on  dogs." 

"When  I'm  talking  business  with  Rivers,"  Twombley 
insisted,  "I  hate  the  racket." 

"All  right,  when  I  see  you  there,  I'll  hold  off." 

But  Maclin  did  not  want  always  to  be  seen  at  the  shack. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  159 

It  was  one  thing  to  stroll  down  to  the  Point,  now  and  again, 
with  that  air  of  having  made  mistakes  in  the  past  and  greet- 
ing the  Pointers  pleasantly,  and  quite  another  to  find  out, 
secretly,  just  what  progress  Larry  was  making  in  his  inter- 
ests and  knowing  what  Larry  was  doing  with  his  long  days 
and  nights. 

So,  after  a  fortnight  of  consideration,  Maclin  walked 
with  Rivers  from  the  mines  one  night  determined  to  spend 
several  hours  in  the  shack  and  "use  his  eyes."  Larry  did  not 
seem  particularly  pleased  with  this  intention  and  paused 
several  times  on  the  rough,  dusky  road,  giving  Maclin  an 
opportunity  to  bid  him  good-night.  But  Maclin  stuck  like 
the  little  brown  devil-pitchforks  that  decorated  the  trousers 
of  both  men  as  they  strode  on  the  woodside  of  the  road. 

"I'm  like  a  rat  in  a  hole,"  Larry  confided,  despairing  of 
shaking  Maclin  off.  "I  wish  to  God  you'd  send  me  away 
somewhere — overseas,  if  you  can.  You  once  promised 
that." 

Maclin's  eyes  contracted,  but  it  was  too  dark  for  Rivers 
to  notice. 

"Too  late,  just  now,  Rivers.  That  hell  of  a  time  they're 
having  over  there  keeps  peaceful  folks  to  their  own  waters." 

"Sometimes" — Larry  grew  moody — "I've  thought  I'd  like 
to  tumble  into  that  mess  and  either ' 

"What?"     Abruptly  Maclin  caught  Rivers  up. 

"Oh!  go  under  or — come  to  the  top."  This  was  to  laugh 
— so  both  men  laughed. 

Laughing  and  talking  in  undertones,  they  came  to  the  dark 
shack  and  Larry,  irritated  at  his  inability  to  drop  Maclin, 
unlocked  the  door  and  went  in,  followed  by  his  unwelcome 
guest. 

"What  in  thunder  do  you  lock  this  old  rookery  up  for?" 
Maclin  asked,  stumbling  over  a  chair. 

"I've  got  a  notion  lately  that  folks  peep  and  pry.  I've 
seen  footprints  around  the  house." 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  they  pry  and  tramp  about?  The 
Point's  getting  dippy.  And  that  blasted  gun  of  Twombley's! 
See  here,  Rivers!" 


160  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

By  this  time  Larry  had  lighted  the  smelly  lamp  and  closed 
the  door  and  locked  it. 

"You're  getting  nervous  and  twisted,  Rivers." 

The  two  sat  down  by  the  paper-strewn  table. 

"Well,  who  wouldn't?"  snapped  Rivers.     "Hiding  in  this 

junk,  knowing  that  your  wife "  he  paused   abruptly* 

but  Maclin  nodded  sympathetically.     "  It's  hell,  Maclin." 

"  Sure !    Got  anything  to  drink  ? " 

Larry  went  to  the  closet  and  brought  out  a  bottle  and 
glasses. 

"This  helps!"  Maclin  said,  pouring  out  the  best  brand 
from  the  Cosey. 

The  men  drained  their  glasses  and  became,  after  a  few 
minutes,  more  cheerful.  Maclin  stretched  out  his  legs — he 
had  to  do  this  in  order  to  adjust  his  fat  and  put  his  hands  in 
his  pockets. 

"Larry,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  you  won't  have  to  hide  in 
your  hole  much  longer.  I'm  one  too  many  for  that  fellow 
Northrup.  I  hold  the  cards  now." 

"The  devil  you  do!"    Rivers's  eyes  brightened. 

"Yes,  sir.  He  wants  the  Point,  old  man,  and  the  Heathv 
cotes  gave  him  the  knowledge  that  your  wife  owns  it.  He's 
getting  her  where  he  can  handle  her.  Damn  shame,  I  say 
— using  a  woman  and  taking  advantage  of  her  weak  side. 
If  we  don't  act  spry  he'll  get  what  he  wants." 

Larry's  face  flushed  a  purple-red. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Maclin?  Talk  out  straight  and 
clear." 

"Well,  I  weigh  it  this  way  and  that.  Northrup  might— 
I  hate  to  use  brutal  terms — he  might  compromise  your  wife 
and  get  her  to  sell  and  shut  him  up,  or  he  might  get  her  so 
bedazzled  that  she'd  feel  real  set  up  to  negotiate  with  him. 
A  man  like  Northrup  is  pretty  flattering  to  a  woman  like 
your  wife,  Rivers.  You  see,  she's  carrying  such  a  big  cargo 
of  learning  and  fancy  rot  that  she  can't  properly  sail.  That 
kind  gets  stranded  always,  Larry.  They  just  naturally  make 
for  rocks." 

Larry  had  a  sensation  of  choking  and  loosened  his  collar, 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  161 

then  he  surprised  Maclin  by  turning  and  lighting  a  fire  in 
the  stove  before  he  further  surprised  him  by  asking,  with 
dangerous  calmness: 

"What  in  all  that's  holy  do  you — this  Northrup — any  one, 
want  this  damned  Point  for?" 

Maclin  was  rarely  in  a  position  to  fence  with  Rivers,  but 
he  was  now. 

"Larry,  old  man,  did  you  ever  have  in  your  life  an  ideal, 
or  what  stands  for  it, that  you  would  work  for,  and  suffer  for?" 

"No!"     Rivers  could  not  stand  delay. 

"Well,  I  have,  Larry.  I'm  an  old  sentimentalist,  when 
you  know  me  proper.  I  took  a  fancy  to  you,  and  while  I 
can't  show  my  feelings  as  many  can,  I  have  stood  by  you 
and  you've  been  a  proposition,  off  and  on.  I  bought  those 
mines  because  I  saw  the  chance  they  offered,  and  I  shared 
with  you.  I've  got  big  men  interested.  I've  let  you  carry 
results  to  them — but  the  results  are  slow,  Rivers,  and  they're 
getting  restive.  I'm  afraid  some  one  of  them  has  blabbed 
and  this  Northrup  is  the  result.  Why,  man,  I've  got  in- 
ventions over  at  the  mines  that  will  revolutionize  this  rotten, 
(azy  Forest.  I  wanted  to  win  the  folks — but  they  wouldn't 
be  won.  I  wanted  to  save  them  in  spite  of  themselves,  but 
damn  'em,  they  won't  be  saved.  In  a  year  I  could  make 
Heathcote  a  rich  man,  if  he'd  wake  up  and  keep  an  inn  in- 
stead of  a  kennel.  But  I've  got  to  have  this  Point.  I  want 
to  build  a  bridge  from  here  to  the  railroad  property  on  the 
other  shore — this  is  the  narrowest  part  of  the  lake;  I  want 
to  build  cottages  here,  instead  of — of  rat  holes.  I've  got 
to  get  this  Point  by  hook  or  crook — and  I  can't  shilly-shally 
with  this  Northrup  on  to  the  game." 

Suddenly,  while  he  was  talking,  Maclin's  eyes  fell  upon 
the  untidy  mass  of  papers  on  the  table.  He  pulled  his  fat 
hands  out  of  his  tight  pockets  and  let  them  fall  like  paper- 
weights on  the  envelopes  and  sheets. 

"What  are  these?"  he  asked. 

Larry  started  guiltily. 

"Old  letters,"  he  said. 

"What  you  doing  with  them?"     As  he  spoke  Maclin  was 


i62  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

sorting  and  arranging  the  papers — the  old  he  put  to  one  side; 
the  newer  ones  on  the  other.  Some  of  the  new  ones  were 
astonishingly  good  copies  of  the  old! 

"  Playing  the  old  game,  eh  ?"  Maclin  scowled.  "I  thought 
you'd  had  enough  of  that,  after ' 

"For  God's  sake,  Maclin,  shut  up." 

"  Been  carrying  these  mementos  around  with  you  all  these 
years?" 

Maclin  was  reading  a  letter  of  Larry's  father — an  old  one. 

"No,  I  brought  them  with  me  from  the  old  house.  Mary- 
Clare  had  them,  but  they  were  mine."  Larry's  face  was 
white  and  set  into  hard  lines. 

"Sure,  so  I  see."     And  Maclin  was  seeing  a  great  deal. 

He  saw  that  Rivers  had  torn  off,  where  it  was  possible, 
half  pages  from  the  old  and  yellowed  letters;  these  were  care- 
fully banded  together,  while  on  fresh  sheets  of  paper,  the 
old  letters  in  part,  or  in  whole,  were  cleverly  copied. 

There  was  one  yellowed  half  sheet  in  the  old  doctor's 
handwriting  bearing  a  new  form  of  expression — there  was  no 
original  of  this.  Maclin  made  sure  of  that.  He  read  this 
new  form  once,  twice,  three  times. 

"If  the  time  should  ever  come,  my  girl,  when  you  and 
Larry  could  not  agree,  he'll  give  you  this  letter.  It  is  all  I 
could  do  for  him;  it  will  prove  that  I  trust  you,  at  every  turn, 
to  do  the  right  and  just  thing.  Stand  by  Larry,  as  I  have 
done." 

Maclin  puffed  out  his  cheeks.  They  looked  like  a  child's 
red  balloon.  "What  in  hell!"  he  ejaculated. 

Larry's  face  was  gray.  Guilt  is  always  quick  to  hold  up 
its  hands  when  it  thinks  the  enemy  has  the  drop  on  it. 

"Can't  you  understand?"  he  whispered  through  dry  lips. 
"I  want  to  outwit  them.  I'm  as  keen  as  you,  Maclin,  and 
I'm  working  for  you,  old  man,  working  for  you !  I  was  going 
to  take  this  to  her — she'll  do  anything  when  she  reads  that — 
and  I  was  going  to  tell  her  why  the  old  man  stood  by  me. 
That  would  shut  her  mouth  and  make  her  pay." 

There  is  in  the  shield  of  every  man  a  weak  spot.  There 
was  one  in  the  shield  of  Madin's  brutal  villainy.  For  a  wo- 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  163 

ment  he  felt  positively  virtuous;  perhaps  the  sensation  proved 
the  embryo  virtue  in  all. 

"Are  any  of  these  things  real?"  he  asked  with  a  rough 
catch  in  his  voice;  "and  don't  lie  to  me — it  wouldn't  be 
healthy." 

"No." 

"You  got  your  wife  by  letting  her  think  your  old  father 
wanted  it,  wrote  about  it?" 

"Yes.  I  had  to  outwit  them  some  way.  I  was  just  free 
and  couldn't  choose.  They  had  no  right  to  cut  me  out." 

"Well,  by  God,  you  are  a  rotter,  Rivers."  The  lines 
at  which  criminals  balk  are  confusing.  "And  she  never 
guessed?" 

"No,  she'd  never  seen  Father's  writing  in  letters." 

Then  Maclin's  outraged  virtue  took  a  curious  turn. 

"And  you  never  cared  for  her  after  you  got  her?" 

"  I  might  have  if  she'd  been  the  right  sort — but  she's  as 
hard  as  flint,  Maclin.  A  man  can't  stand  her  sort  and  keep 
his  own  self-respect." 

Maclin  indulged  in  a  weak  laugh  at  this  and  Larry's  face 
burned. 

"  I  might  have  gone  straight  if  she'd  been  square,  but  she 
wasn't.  A  man  can't  put  up  with  her  type.  And  now — well ! 
She  ought  to  pay  now." 

Maclin  was  gripping  the  loose  sheets  in  his  fat,  greasy 
hands. 

"Hold  on  there."  Larry  pointed.  "You're  getting  them 
creased  and  dirty!" 

Again  Maclin  laughed. 

"I'll  leave  enough  copy,"  he  muttered.  Then  he  fixed  his 
little  eyes  on  his  prey  while  his  fat  neck  wrinkled  in  the  back. 
His  emotion  of  virtue  flickered  and  died,  he  was  the  alert 
man  of  business  once  more.  "I  told  you  after  you  got  out 
of  prison,  Rivers,  that  I'd  never  stand  for  any  more  of  that 
counterfeiting  stuff.  It's  too  risky,  and  the  talent  can  be  put 
to  better  purpose.  I've  stood  by  you,  I  like  you,  and  I  need 
you.  When  we  all  pony  up  you'll  get  your  share — I  mean 
when  we  build  up  the  Forest,  you'll  have  a  fat  berth,  but 


164  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

you've  got  to  play  a  card  now  for  me  and  play  it  damn  quick. 
Here,  take  this  gem  of  yours" — he  tossed  Larry's  latest 
production  to  him — "and  go  to  your  wife  to-morrow,  and 
tell  her  why  your  old  man  stood  by  you;  shut  her  mouth 
with  that  choice  bit  and  then  tell  her — you  want  the  Point  1 
You've  got  her  cornered,  Rivers.  She  can't  escape.  If  she 
tries  to,  hurl  Northrup  at  her." 

Larry  wiped  his  lips  with  his  hot  hand. 

"I  haven't  quite  finished  this,"  he  muttered;  "it  will  take 
a  day  or  two." 

"Rivers,  if  you  try  any  funny  work  on  me "  Maclin 

looked  dangerous.  He  felt  the  fear  that  comes  from  not 
trusting  those  he  must  use. 

"I'm  not  going  to  double-cross  you,  Maclin." 

"Here,  take  a  nifter."  Maclin  pushed  the  bottle  toward 
Rivers.  "You  look  all  in,"  he  ventured. 

"I  am,  just  about." 

"Well,  after  this  piece  of  business,  I'll  send  you  off  for 
as  long  as  you  want  to  stay.  You  need  a  change." 

Larry  revived  after  a  moment  or  two  and  some  colour  crept 
into  his  cheeks. 

"  I'm  going  now,"  Maclin  said,  getting  up  and  releasing  the 
tools  of  Larry's  trade.  "  Better  get  a  good  night's  rest  and 
be  fresh  for  to-morrow.  A  day  or  so  won't  count,  so  long  as 
we  understand  the  game.  Good-night!" 

Outside  in  the  darkness  Maclin  stood  still  and  listened. 
His  iron  nerves  were  shaken  and  he  had  his  moment  of  far 
vision.  If  he  succeeded — well!  at  that  thought  Maclin  felt 
his  blood  run  riotously  in  his  veins.  Glory!  Glory  1  His 
name  ringing  out  into  fame. 

But! — the  cold  sweat  broke  over  the  fat  man  standing  in 
the  dark.  Still,  he  would  not  have  been  the  man  he  was 
if  he  permitted  doubt  to  linger.  He  must  succeed.  Right 
was  back  of  him;  with  him.  Unyielding  Right.  It  must 
succeed. 

Maclin  strode  on,  picking  his  way  over  the  ash  heaps  and 
broken  bottles.  A  pale  moon  was  trying  to  make  itself 
evident,  but  piles  of  black  clouds  defeated  it  at  every  attempt. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  165 

The  wind  was  changing.  From  afar  the  chapel  bell  struck 
its  warning.  It  rang  wildly,  gleefully,  then  sank  into  silence 
only  to  begin  once  more.  Seeking,  seeking  a  quarter  in  which 
it  might  rest. 

'  Maclin,  head  down,  plunged  into  the  night  and  reached  the 
road  to  the  mines.  He  saw  to  it  that  the  road  was  so  bad 
that  no  one  would  use  it  except  from  necessity,  but  he  cursed 
it  now.  He  all  but  fell  several  times,  he  thanked  God — God 
indeed! — when  the  lights  of  the  Cosey  Bar  came  in  sight. 

He  did  not  often  drink  of  his  public  whiskey,  or  drink 
with  his  foreigners,  but  he  chose  to  do  so  to-night.  His  men 
welcomed  him  thickly — they  had  been  wallowing  in  beer  for 
hours;  the  man  at  the  bar  drew  forth  a  bottle  of  whiskey — 
he  knew  Maclin  rarely  drank  beer. 

An  hour  later,  Maclin,  master  of  the  place  and  the  men, 
•tfas  talking  slowly,  encouragingly,  in  a  tongue  that  they  all 
flnderstood.  Their  dull  eyes  brightened;  their  heavy  faces 
twitched  under  excitement  that  amounted  to  inspiration. 
Now  and  again  they  raised  their  mugs  aloft  and  muttered 
something  that  sounded  strangely  like  prayer. 

Dominated  by  a  man  and  an  emotion  they  were,  not  the 
drudging  machines  of  the  mines,  but  a  vital  force  ready  for 
action. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

NORTHRUP  decided  to  turn  back  at  once  to  his  own 
place  in  life  after  that  revealing  afternoon  with  Mary- 
Clare.  He  was  not  in  any  sense  deceived  by  condi- 
tions. He  had,  after  twenty-four  hours,  been  able  to  classify 
the  situation  and  reduce  it  to  its  proper  proportions.  As  it 
stood,  it  had,  he  acknowledged,  been  saved  by  the  rare  and 
unusual  qualities  of  Mary-Clare.  But  it  could  not  bear 
the  stress  and  strain  of  repeated  tests.  Unless  he  meant  to 
be  a  fool  and  fill  his  future  with  remorse,  for  he  was  decent 
and  sane,  he  could  do  nothing  but  go  away  and  let  the  inci- 
dents of  King's  Forest  bear  sanctifying  fruits,  not  draughts 
of  wormwood. 

Something  rather  big  had  happened  to  him — he  must  not 
permit  it  to  become  small.  He  recalled  Mary-Clare's  words 
and  face  and  a  great  tenderness  swept  over  him. 

"Poor  little  girl,"  he  thought,  "part  of  a  commonplace, 
dingy  tragedy.  What  is  there  for  her?  But  what  could  I 
have  done  for  her,  in  God's  name,  to  better  her  lot?  She 
saw  it  clear  enough." 

No,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  turn  his  back  on  the  whole 
thing  and  go  home!  Shorn  of  the  spiritual  and  uplifting 
qualities,  the  situation  was  bald  and  dangerous.  He  must 
be  practical  and  wise,  but  deciding  to  leave  and  actually 
leaving  were  different  matters. 

The  weather  jeered  at  him  by  its  glorious  warmth  and 
colour.  It  held  day  after  day  with  occasional  sharp  storms 
that  ended  in  greater  beauty.  The  thought  of  the  city  made 
Northrup  shudder.  He  tried  to  work:  it  was  still  warm 
enough  in  the  deserted  chapel  to  write,  but  he  knew  that  he 
was  accomplishing  nothing.  There  was  a  gap  in  the  story — 
the  woman  part.  Every  time  Northrup  came  to  that  he  felt 

1 66 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  167 

as  if  he  were  laying  a  wet  cloth  over  the  soft  clay  until  he  had 
time  finally  to  mould  it.  And  he  kept  from  any  chance  of 
meeting  Mary-Clare. 

"I'll  wait  until  this  marvellous  spell  of  weather  breaks," 
he  compromised  with  his  lesser — or  better — self.  "Then  I'll 
beat  it!" 

Looking  to  this  he  asked  Uncle  Peter  what  the  chances 
were  of  a  cold  spell. 

"There  was  a  time" — Peter  sniffed  the  air.  He  was 
husking  golden  corn  by  the  kitchen  fire — "when  I  could  cal- 
culate about  the  weather,  but  since  the  weather  man  has  got 
to  meddling  he's  messed  things  considerable.  He's  put  in 
the  Middle  States,  and  what-not,  until  it's  like  doing  sub- 
traction and  division — and  by  that  time  the  change  of  weather 
is  on  you." 

Northrup  laughed. 

"Well,"  he  said,  getting  up  and  stretching,  "I  think  I'll 
take  a  turn  before  I  go  to  bed.  Bank  the  fire,  Uncle  Peter; 
I  may  prowl  late." 

Heathcote  asked  no  questions,  but  those  prowls  of  North- 
rup's  were  putting  his  simple  faith  to  severe  tests.  Peter  was 
above  gossip,  but  when  it  swirled  too  near  him  he  was  bound 
to  watch  out. 

"All  right,  son,"  he  muttered,  and  ran  his  hand  through  his 
bristling  hair. 

The  night  was  a  dark  one.  A  soft  darkness  it  was,  that 
held  no  wind  and  only  a  hint  of  frost.  Stepping  quickly 
along  the  edge  of  the  lake,  Northrup  felt  that  he  was  being 
absorbed  by  the  still  shadows  and  the  sensation  pleased  and 
comforted  him.  He  was  not  aware  of  thought,  but  thought 
was  taking  him  into  control,  as  the  night  was.  There  would 
be  moments  of  seeming  blank  and  then  a  conclusion!  A 
vivid,  final  conclusion.  Of  course  Mary-Clare  occupied 
these  moments  of  seeming  mental  inaction.  Northrup  now 
wanted  to  set  her  free  from — what? 

"That  young  beast  of  a  husband!"  So  much  for  that  con- 
clusion. If  the  end  had  come  between  him  and  Mary-Clare, 
Northrup  wondered  if  he  could  free  her  from  Rivers. 


i68  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"What  for?" 

This  brought  a  hurtling  mass  of  conclusions. 

"No  man  has  a  right  to  get  a  stranglehold  on  a  woman. 
If  she  has,  as  the  old  darkey  said,  lost  her  taste  for  him, 
why  in  thunder  should  he  want  to  cram  himself  down  her 
throat?" 

This  was  more  common  sense  than  moral  or  legal,  and 
Northrup  bent  his  head  and  plunged  along.  He  walked  on, 
believing  that  he  was  master  of  his  soul  and  his  actions  at 
last,  while,  in  reality,  he  was  but  part  of  the  Scheme  of 
Things  and  was  acting  under  orders. 

Presently,  he  imagined  that  he  had  decided  all  along  to 
go  to  the  Point  and  have  a  talk  with  Twombley.  So  he  kept 
straight  ahead. 

Twombley  delighted  his  idle  hours.  The  man,  appar^ 
ently,  never  went  to  bed  until  daylight,  and  his  quaint  un- 
morality  was  as  diverting  as  that  of  an  impish  boy. 

"Now,  sir,"  he  had  confided  to  Northrup  at  a  recent  meeN 
ing,  "there's  Peneluna  Sniff.  Good  cook;  good  manager. 
I  held  off  while  she  played  up  to  old  Sniff,  women  are  curious! 
But  now  that  woman  ought  to  be  utilized  legitimate-like. 
She's  running  to  waste  and  throwing  away  her  talents  on 
that  young  Rivers  as  is  giving  this  here  Point  the  creeps. 
Peneluna  and  me  together  could  find  things  out!" 

Northrup,  hurrying  on,  believed  there  was  no  better  way 
to  drive  off  the  blue  devils  that  were  torturing  him  than  to 
pass  the  evening  with  Twombley. 

Just  then  he  heard  quick,  light  footsteps  coming  toward 
him.  He  hid  behind  some  bushes  by  the  path  and  waited. 

The  oncomer  was  Larry  Rivers  on  his  way  from  the  Point, 
His  hat  was  pulled  down  over  his  face  and  his  hands  were 
plunged  in  his  pockets.  A  lighted  cigar  in  his  mouth  illu- 
mined his  features — Larry  rarely  needed  his  hands  to  manipu- 
late his  cigar;  a  shift  seemed  to  be  all  that  was  essential, 
until  the  ashes  fell  and  the  cigar  was  almost  finished. 

Larry  walked  on,  and  when  he  was  beyond  sound  Northrup 
proceeded  on  his  way. 

The  Point  seemed  wrapped  in  decent  slumber.     A  light 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  169 

frankly  burned  in  Twombley's  hovel,  but  for  the  rest,  dark- 
ness! 

Oddly  enough,  Northrup  passed  Twombley's  place  with- 
out halting,  and  presently  found  himself  nearing  Rivers's. 
This  did  not  surprise  him.  He  had  quite  forgotten  his  plan. 

It  was  seeing  Larry  that  had  suggested  this  new  move, 
probably;  at  any  rate,  Northrup  was  curiously  interested  in 
the  fact  that  Larry  was  headed  away  from  the  Point  and 
toward  the  yellow  house. 

The  loose  rubbish  and  garbage  presently  got  into  North- 
nip's  consciousness  and  made  him  think,  as  they  always  did, 
of  Maclin's  determination  to  get  possession  of  the  ugly  place. 

"It  is  the  very  devil!"  he  muttered,  almost  tumbling  over 
a  smelly  pile.  "What's  that?"  He  crouched  in  the  dark- 
ness. His  eyes  were  so  accustomed  to  the  gloom  now  that 
he  saw  quite  distinctly  the  door  of  Peneluna's  shack  open, 
close  softly,  and  someone  tiptoeing  toward  Rivers's  shanty. 
Keeping  at  a  distance,  Northrup  followed  and  when  he  was 
about  twenty  feet  behind  the  other  prowler,  he  saw  that  it 
was  Jan-an  and  that  she  was  cautiously  going  from  window 
to  window  of  Larry's  empty  house,  peeping,  listening,  and 
then  finally  muttering  and  whimpering. 

"Well,  what  in  thunder!"  Northrup  decided  to  investigate 
but  keep  silent  as  long  as  he  could. 

A  baby  in  the  distance  broke  into  a  cry;  a  man's  rough 
voice  stilled  it  with  a  threat  and  then  all  was  quiet  once  more. 

The  next  thing  that  occurred  was  the  amazing  sight  of 
Jan-an  nimbly  climbing  into  the  window  of  Larry's  kitchen! 
Jan-an  had  either  pried  the  sash  up  or  Larry  had  been  care- 
less. Northrup  went  up  to  the  house  and  listened.  Jan-an 
was  moving  rapidly  about  inside  and  presently  she  lighted  a 
lamp,  and  through  the  slit  between  the  shade  and  the  window 
ledge  Northrup  could  watch  the  girl's  movements. 

Jan-an  wore  an  old  coat,  a  man's,  over  a  coarse  nightgown; 
her  hair  straggled  down  her  back;  her  vacant  face  was  twitch- 
ing and  worried,  but  a  decent  kind  of  dignity  touched  it,  too. 
She  was  bent  upon  a  definite  course,  but  was  confused  and 
uncertain  as  to  details. 


170  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Over  the  papers  scattered  on  the  table  Jan-an  bent  like  a 
hungry  beast  of  prey.  Her  long  fingers  clutched  the  loose 
sheets;  her  devouring  eyes  scanned  them,  compared  them 
with  others,  while  over  and  again  a  muttered  curse  escaped 
the  girl's  lips. 

Northrup  took  a  big  chance.  He  went  to  the  door  and 
tapped. 

He  heard  a  quick,  frightened  move  toward  the  window — 
Jan-an  was  escaping  as  she  had  entered.  As  the  sash  was 
raised,  Northrup  was  close  to  the  window  and  the  girl  reeled 
back  as  she  saw  him. 

"Jan-an,"  he  said  quietly,  controllingly,  "let  me  in.  You 
can  trust  me.  Let  me  in." 

Poor  Jan-an  was  in  sore  need  of  someone  in  whom  she 
might  trust  and  she  could  not  afford  to  waste  time.  She 
raised  the  sash  again,  climbed  in,  and  then  opened  the  door. 
Northrup  entered  and  locked  the  door  after  him. 

"Now,  then,"  he  said,  sitting  opposite  to  the  girl  who 
dropped,  rather  than  seated  herself,  in  her  old  place.  "Jan- 
an,  what  are  you  up  to?" 

To  his  surprise,  the  girl  burst  into  tears. 

"My  God,"  she  moaned,  "what  did  I  have  feelin's  for — and 
no  sense?  I  can't  read!"  she  blurted.  "I  can't  read." 

This  was  puzzling,  but  Northrup  saw  that  the  girl  had 
confidence  in  him — a  desperate,  unknowing  confidence  that 
had  grown  slowly. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  read,  Jan-an?"  he  asked  in  a  low, 
kindly  tone. 

"I  know  you  ain't  his  friend,  are  you?"  The  wet,  pitiful 
face  was  lifted.  Old  fears  and  distrust  rose  grimly. 

"Whose?" 

"Maclin's,  ole  divil-man  Maclin?" 

"Certainly  not!  You  know  better  than  to  ask  that, 
Jan-an." 

"Nor  his — Larry  Rivers?" 

"No,  I  am  not  his  friend." 

Thus  reassured  once  more,  Jan-an  ventured  nearer: 

"You  don't  aim  to  hurt — her?" 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  171 

"Whom  do  you  mean?"  Northrup  was  perplexed  by  the 
growing  intelligence  in  the  face  across  the  table.  It  was  like 
a  slow  revealing  of  a  groping  power. 

"I  mean  them — Mary-Clare  and  Noreen." 

"  Hurt  them  ?  Why,  Jan-an,  I'd  do  anything  to  help  them, 
make  them  safe  and  happy."  Northrup  felt  as  if  he  and 
the  girl  opposite  were  rapidly  becoming  accomplices  in  a 
tense  plot.  "What  does  all  this  mean?" 

"As  God  seeing  yer,  yer  mean  that?"  Jan-an  leaned 
forward. 

"God  seeing  me!     Yes,  Jan-an." 

"Yer  ain't  hanging  around  her  to  do  her — dirt?" 

"Good  Lord,  no!"  Northrup  recoiled.  Apparently  new 
anxiety  was  overcoming  the  girl. 

Then,  by  a  sudden  dash,  Jan-an  swept  the  untidy  mass  of 
papers  over  to  him;  she  abdicated  her  last  stronghold. 

"What's  them?"  she  demanded  huskily.  Northrup 
brought  the  smelly  kerosene  lamp  nearer  and  as  he  read  he 
was  conscious  of  Jan-an's  mutterings. 

"Stealing  her  letters — what  is  letters,  anyway?  And  I've 
counted  and  watched — he's  took  one  to  her  to-night.  Just 
one.  One  he  has  made.  Writing  day  in  and  out — tearing 
up  writing — sneaking  and  lying.  God!  And  new  letters 
looking  like  old  ones,  till  I'm  fair  crazy." 

For  a  few  moments  Northrup  lost  the  sound  of  Jan-an's 
guttural  whimpers,  then  he  caught  the  words: 

"And  her  crying  and  wanting  the  letters.  Just  letters!" 
Northrup  again  became  absorbed. 

He  placed  certain  old  sheets  on  one  side  of  the  table;  newer 
sheets  on  the  other;  some  half  sheets  in  the  middle.  It  was 
like  an  intricate  puzzle,  and  the  same  one  that  Maclin  had 
recently  tackled. 

That  he  was  meddling  with  another's  property  and  reading 
another's  letters  did  not  seem  to  occur  to  Northrup.  He  was 
held  by  a  determined  force  that  was  driving  him  on  and  an 
intense  interest  that  justified  any  means  at  his  disposal. 

"Some  day  I  will  read  my  old  doctor's  letters  to  you — I 
have  kept  them  all!" 


i72  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Northrup  looked  up.  Almost  he  believed  Jan-an  had 
voiced  the  words,  but  they  had  been  spoken  days  ago  by 
Mary-Clare  during  one  of  those  illuminating  talks  of  theirs 
and  here  were  some  old  letters  of  the  doctor's.  Were  these 
Mary-Clare's  letters  ?  Why  were  they  here  and  in  this  state  ? 

Suddenly  Northrup's  face  stiffened.  The  old,  yellowed 
letters  were,  apparently,  from  Doctor  Rivers  to  his  son! 
But  there  were  other  letters  on  bits  of  fresh  paper,  the  hand- 
writing identical,  or  nearly  so.  Northrup's  more  intelligent 
eye  saw  differences.  The  more  recent  letters  were,  evidently, 
exercises;  one  improved  on  the  other;  in  some  cases  parts  of 
the  letters  were  repeated.  All  these  Northrup  sorted  and 
laid  in  neat  piles. 

"She  set  a  store  by  them  old  letters,"  Jan-an  was  rambling 
along.  "I'd  have  taken  them  back  to  her,  but  I  'clar,  'fore 
God,  I  don't  know  which  is  which,  I'm  that  cluttered.  Why 
did  he  want  to  pest  her  by  taking  them  and  then  making  more 
and  more?" 

"  I'm  trying  to  find  out."  Northrup  spoke  almost  harshly. 
He  wanted  to  quiet  the  girl. 

The  last  scrap  of  paper  had  been  torn  from  an  old,  greasy 
bag  and  bore  clever  imitation.  It  was  the  last  copy,  Northrup 
believed,  of  what  Jan-an  said  he  had  just  carried  away  with 
him. 

Northrup  grew  hot  and  cold.  He  read  the  words  and  his 
brain  reeled.  It  was  an  appeal,  or  supposed  to  be  one,  from  a 
dead  man  to  one  whom  he  trusted  in  a  last  emergency. 

"So  he's  this  kind  of  a  scoundrel  1"  muttered  Northrup, 
dazed  by  the  blinding  shock  of  the  fear  that  became,  moment 
by  moment,  more  definite.  "And  he's  taken  the  thing  to  her 
in  order  to  get  money." 

Northrup  could  grope  along,  but  he  could  not  see  clearly. 
By  temperament  and  training  he  had  evolved  a  peculiar 
sensitiveness  in  relation  to  inanimate  things.  If  he  became 
receptive  and  passive,  articles  which  he  handled  or  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  often  transmitted  messages  for  him. 

So,  now,  disregarding  poor  Jan-an,  who  rambled  on,  North- 
rup gazed  at  the  letters  near  him,  and  held  close  the.  brown- 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  173 

paper  scrap  which  was,  he  believed,  the  final  copy  before  the 
finished  production  which  was  undoubtedly  being  borne  to 
Mary-Clare  now.  Rivers  would  have  a  scene  with  his  wife 
in  the  yellow  house.  With  no  one  to  interfere!  Northrup 
started  affrightedly,  then  realized  that  before  he  could  get 
to  the  crossroads  whatever  was  to  occur  would  have  occurred. 

Larry  would  return  to  the  shack.  There  was  every  evi- 
dence that  he  had  not  departed  finally.  Believing  that  no 
one  would  disturb  his  place  so  late  at  night  he  had  taken  a 
chance  and — been  caught  by  the  last  person  in  the  world  one 
would  have  suspected. 

As  an  unconscious  sleuth  Jan-an  was  dramatic.  Northrup 
let  his  eyes  fall  upon  the  girl  with  new  significance.  She  had 
given  him  the  power  to  set  Mary-Clare  free! 

Her  dull,  tear-stained  face  was  turned  hopefully  to  him; 
her  straight,  coarse  hair  hung  limply  on  her  shoulders — the 
old  coat  had  slipped  away  and  the  ugly  nightgown  but  partly 
hid  the  thin,  scraggy  body.  Lost  to  all  self-consciousness,  the 
poor  creature  was  but  an  evidence  of  faith  and  devotion  to 
them  who. had  been  kind  to  her.  Something  of  nobility 
crowned  the  girl.  Northrup  went  around  to  her  and  pulled 
the  old  coat  close  under  her  chin. 

"It's  all  right,  Jan-an,"  he  comforted,  patting  the  un- 
kempt head. 

"Are  them  the  letters  he  stole?" 

"Some  of  them,  yes,  Jan-an." 

"Kin  I  take  'em  back  to  her?" 

"Not  to-night.     I  think  Rivers  will  take  them  back." 

"  S'pose  he  won't." 

"He  will." 

"You,  you're  going  to  fetch  him  one?"  The  instinct  of 
the  savage  rose  in  the  girl. 

"If  necessary,  yes!"  Northrup  shared  the  primitive  in- 
stinct at  that  moment.  "And  now  you  trot  along  home,  my 
girl,  and  don't  open  your  lips  to  any  one." 

"And  you?" 

"I'll  wait  for  Mr.  Larry  Rivers  here!" 

"  My  God ! "  Jan-an  burst  forth.     Then :  "  There's  a  sizable 


174  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

log  back  of  the  stove.  Yer  can  fetch  a  good  one  with 
that." 

"Thanks,  Jan-an.     Go  now." 

Jan-an  rose  stiffly  and  shuffled  to  the  door,  unlocked  it, 
and  went  into  the  blackness  outside. 

Then  Northrup  sat  down  and  prepared  to  wait. 

The  stove  was  rusty  and  cold,  but  Rivers  had  evidently 
had  a  huge  fire  on  the  hearth  during  the  day.  Now  that  he 
noticed,  Northrup  saw  that  there  were  scraps  of  burned  paper 
fluttering  like  wings  of  evil  omens  stricken  in  their  flight. 

He  went  over  to  the  hearth,  poked  the  ashes,  and  discov- 
ered life.  He  laid  on  wood,  slowly  feeding  the  hungry  sparks, 
then  he  took  his  old  place  by  the  table,  blew  out  the  light 
of  the  lamp  and  in  the  dark  room,  shot  by  the  flares  of  the 
igniting  logs,  he  resigned  himself  to  what  lay  before. 

Rivers  might  return  with  Maclin.  This  was  a  new  possi- 
bility and  disconcerting;  still  it  must  be  met. 

"I  may  kill  a  flock  of  birds  by  one  interview,"  Northrup 
grimly  thought  and  then  drifted  off  on  Maclin's  trail.  The 
ever-recurring  wonder  about  the  Point  was  intensified;  he 
must  leave  that  still  in  doubt. 

"  I'll  get  the  damned  thing  in  my  own  control,  if  I  can,"  he 
concluded  at  length.  "Buy  it  up  for  safety;  keep  still  about 
it  and  watch  how  Maclin  reacts  when  he  knocks  against  the 
fact,  eventually.  That  will  make  things  safe  for  the  present." 

But  to  own  the  Point  meant  to  hold  on  to  King's  Forest 
just  when  he  had  decided  to  turn  from  it  forever — after  set- 
ting Mary-Clare  free. 

The  sense  of  a  spiritual  overlord  for  an  instant  daunted 
Northrup.  It  was  humiliating  to  realize  how  he  had  been 
treading,  all  along,  one  course  while  believing  he  was  going 
another.  And  then — it  was  close  upon  midnight  and  vitality 
ran  sluggish — Northrup  became  part  of  one  of  those  curious 
mental  experiences  that  go  far  to  prove  how  narrow  the 
boundary  is  that  lies  between  the  things  we  understand  and 
those  that  are  yet  to  be  understood. 

For  some  moments — or  was  it  hours? — Northrup  was  not 
conscious  of  time  or  place;  not  even  conscious  of  himself  as 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  175 

a  body;  he  seemed  to  be  a  condition,  over  which  a  contest  of 
emotions  swept.  He  was  not  asleep.  He  recalled  later,  that 
he  had  kept  his  eyes  on  the  fire;  had  once  attended  to  it,  cast- 
ing on  a  heavy  log  that  dimmed  its  ferocious  ardour. 

Where  Jan-an  had  recently  sat,  struggling  with  her  doubts 
and  fears,  Mary-Clare  seemed  to  be.  And  yet  it  was  not  so 
much  Mary-Clare,  visually  imagined,  as  that  which  had  gone 
into  the  making  of  the  woman. 

The  black,  fierce  night  of  her  birth;  her  isolated  up-bringing 
with  a  man  whose  mentality  had  overpowered  his  wisdom; 
the  contact  with  Larry  Rivers;  the  forced  marriage  and  the 
determined  effort  to  live  up  to  a  bargain  made  in  the  dark, 
endured  in  the  dark.  It  came  to  Northrup,  drifting  as  he 
was,  that  a  man  or  woman  can  go  through  slime  and  torment 
and  really  escape  harm.  The  old,  fiery  furnace  legend  was 
based  on  an  eternal  truth;  that  and  the  lions'  den!  It  put  a 
new  light  on  that  peculiar  quality  of  Mary-Clare.  She  had 
never  been  burnt  or  wounded — not  the  real  woman  of  her. 
That  explained  the  maddening  thing  about  her — her  aloof- 
ness. What  would  she  be  now  when  she  stood  alone?  For 
she  was  going  to  stand  alone!  Then  Northrup  felt  new  sen- 
sations driving  across  that  state  which  really  was  himself 
shorn  of  prejudice  and  limitations.  His  relation  to  Mary- 
Clare  was  changed! 

There  were  primitive  forces  battling  for  expression  in  his 
lax  hour.  Setting  the  woman  free  from  bondage — what  for? 

That  was  the  world-old  call.  Not  free  for  herself,  but  free 
that  another  might  claim  her.  He,  sitting  there,  wanted  her. 
She  had  not  altered  that  by  her  heroism.  Who  would  help 
her  free  herself,  for  herself?  Who  would  cut  her  loose  and 
make  no  claims?  Would  it  be  possible  to  help  her  and 
not  put  her  under  obligation?  Could  any  one  trust  a  higher 
Power  and  go  one's  way  unasking,  refusing  everything? 
Was  there  such  a  thing  as  freedom  for  a  woman  when  two 
men  were  so  welded  into  her  life? 

Northrup  set  his  teeth  hard  together.  In  the  stillness  he 
had  his  fight!  And  just  then  a  shuffling  outside  brought 
him  back  to  reality. 


176  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Rivers  came  in,  not  noticing  the  unlocked  door;  he  had 
been  drinking.  Northrup's  eyes,  accustomed  to  the  gloom, 
marked  his  unsteady  gait;  smiled  as  Larry,  unconscious  of 
his  presence,  sank  into  a  chair — the  one  in  which  Jan-an 
had  sat — reached  out  toward  the  lamp,  struck  a  match, 
lighted  the  wick  and  then,  appalled,  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
Northrup! 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HELLO,  Rivers!    I'm  something  of  a  surprise,  eh?" 
"Hell!"    The  word  escaped  Rivers  as  might  a  cry 
that  followed  a  stunning  blow. 

A  guilty  person,  taken  by  surprise,  always  imagines  the 
worst.  Rivers  knew  what  he  believed  the  man  before  him 
knew,  he  also  believed  much  that  Maclin  had  insinuated,  or 
stated  as  fact,  and  he  was  thoroughly  frightened  and  at  a 
disadvantage. 

His  nerve  was  shattered  by  the  recent  interview  with  Mary- 
Clare;  the  earlier  one  with  Maclin.  Drink  was  befuddling 
him.  It  was  like  being  in  quicksand.  He  dared  not  move, 
but  he  felt  himself  sinking. 

"Oh!  don't  take  it  too  seriously,  Rivers."  Northrup  felt 
a  decent  sympathy  for  the  fellow  across  the  table;  his  fear  was 
agonizing.  "We  might  as  well  get  to  an  understanding 
without  a  preamble.  I  reckon  there  are  a  lot  of  things  we 
can  pass  over  while  we  tackle  the  main  job." 

"You   damned "    Larry    spluttered   the  words,    but 

Northrup  raised  his  hand  as  if  staying  further  waste  of  time. 
He  hated  to  take  too  great  an  advantage  of  a  caged  man. 

"Of  course,  Rivers,"  he  said,  "I  wouldn't  have  broken 
into  your  house  and  read  your  letters  if  there  wasn't  something 
rather  big-sized  at  stake.  So  do  not  switch  off  on  a  siding 
— let's  get  through  with  this." 

The  tone  and  words  were  like  a  dash  of  icy  water;  Rivers 
moistened  his  lips  and  sank,  mentally,  into  that  position  he 
loathed  and  yet  could  not  escape.  Someone  was  again  get- 
ting control  of  him.  He  might  writhe  and  strain,  but  he  was 
caught  once  more — caught!  caught! 

"In  God's  name,"  he  whispered,  "who  are  you,  anyway? 
What  are  you  after?" 

"That's  what  I'm  here  to  tell  you,  Rivers." 

177 


178  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"Go  ahead  then,  go  ahead!"  Larry  again  moistened  his 
dry  lips — he  felt  that  he  was  choking.  He  was  ready  to  turn 
state's  evidence  as  soon  as  he  saw  an  opportunity.  Debonair 
and  clever,  crafty  and  unfaithful,  Larry  had  but  one  clear 
thought — he  would  not  go  behind  bars  again  if  one  avenue  of 
escape  remained  open! 

Maclin — Maclin's  secret  business,  loomed  high,  but  at  that 
moment  Mary-Clare  held  no  part  in  his  desperate  fear. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

Then,  as  if  falling  into  his  mood,  Northrup  said  calmly: 

"First,  I  want  the  Point." 

Larry's  jaw  dropped;  but  he  felt  convinced  that  it  was 
Maclin  or  he  who  faced  destruction  and  he  meant  to  let 
Maclin  suffer  now  as  Maclin  had  once  permitted  him  to  suffer. 
If  there  was  dirty  work  at  the  mines  Maclin  should  pay. 
That  was  justice — Maclin  had  made  a  tool  of  him. 

"I  don't  own  the  Point."  Rivers  heard  his  own  voice 
as  if  from  a  distance.  He  had  Mary-Clare's  word  that  she 
would  help  him;  the  letter  had  done  its  overpowering  work, 
but  he  had  left  confession  and  detail  until  later.  Mary-Clare 
had  pleaded  for  time,  and  he  had  come  from  her  with  his 
business  unsettled. 

"I  think  after  we've  finished  with  our  talk  you  can  prevail 
upon  your  wife  to  sell  the  Point  to  me  and  say  nothing 
about  it." 

Rivers  clutched  the  edge  of  the  table.  To  his  inflamed 
brain  Northrup  seemed  to  know  all  and  everything — he  dared 
not  haggle. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  repeated  stammeringly.  "What 
right  have  you  to  break  into  my  place  and  read  my  papers? 
All  I  want  to  know  is,  what  right  have  you?  I  cannot  be 
expected  to — to  come  to  terms  unless  I  know  that.  I  should 
think  you  might  see  that."  The  bravado  was  so  pitiful  and 
weak  that  Northrup  barely  repressed  a  laugh. 

"I  don't  want  to  turn  the  screws,  Rivers,"  he  said;  "and 
of  course  you  have  a  right  to  an  answer  to  your  question.  I 
want  the  Point  because  I  don't  want  Maclin  to  have  it. 
Why  he  wants  it,  I'll  find  out  after.  I'm  illegally  demanding 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  179 

things  from  you,  but  there  are  times  when  I  believe  such  a 
course  is  justifiable  in  order  to  save  everybody  trouble.  You 
could  kick  me  out,  or  try  to,  but  you  won't.  You  could  have 
the  law  on  me — but  I  don't  believe  you  will  want  it.  Of 
course  you  know  that  /  know  pretty  well  what  I  am  about  or 
I  would  not  put  myself  in  your  power.  So  let's  cut  out  the 
theatricals.  Rivers,  this  Maclin  isn't  any  good.  Just  how 
rotten  he  is  can  be  decided  later.  He's  making  a  fool  of 
you  and  you'll  get  a  fool's  pay.  You  know  this.  I'm  going 
to  help  you,  Rivers,  if  I  can.  You  need  all  the  time  there  is 
for — getting  away!" 

Larry's  face  was  livid.  He  was  prepared  to  betray  Maclin, 
but  the  old  power  held  him  captive. 

"I  dare  not!"  he  groaned. 

"Oh!  yes,  you  dare.  Brace  up,  Rivers.  There  is  more 
than  one  way  to  tackle  a  bad  job."  Then,  so  suddenly  that 
it  took  Rivers's  breath,  Northrup  swept  everything  from  sight 
by  asking  calmly:  "What  did  you  do  with  that  letter  you 
m  anuf actured  ? " 

So  utterly  unexpected  was  this  attack,  so  completely  aside 
from  what  seemed  to  be  at  stake,  that  Rivers  concluded  every- 
thing was  known;  that  the  very  secrets  of  his  innermost 
thoughts  were  in  this  man's  knowledge.  The  quicksands 
all  but  engulfed  him.  With  unblinking  eyes  he  regarded 
Northrup  as  though  hypnotized. 

"  I  took  it  to  her,"  he  gasped. 

"Your  wife?" 

"Yes." 

"She  does  not  suspect?" 

"No." 

"What  did  your  wife  say  when  she  read  the  letter?" 

"She's  going  to  help  me  out." 

"I  see.  All  right,  you're  going  to  tell  her  that  you  want 
the  Point  and  then  you're  going  to  sell  it  to  me.  Heathcote 
can  fix  this  up  in  a  few  days — the  money  I  pay  you  will  get 
you  out  of  Maclin's  reach.  If  he  makes  a  break  for  you, 
I'll  grab  him.  I  guess  he's  susceptible  to  scare,  too,  if  the 
truth  were  known." 


i8o  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"My  God!  I  want  a  drink."  Larry  looked  as  if  he  did; 
he  rose  and  reeled  over  to  the  closet. 

Northrup  regarded  his  man  closely  and  his  fingers  reached 
out  and  drew  the  scattered  papers  nearer. 

"Take  only  enough  to  stiffen  you  up,  a  swallow  or  two, 
Rivers." 

Larry  obeyed  mechanically  and  when  he  returned  to  his 
chair  he  was  firmer. 

"Rivers,  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  chance  by  way  of  the  only 
decent  course  open  to  you — or  to  me.  God  knows,  it's 
smudgy  enough  at  the  best  and  crooked,  but  it's  all  I  can 
muster.  I  don't  expect  you  to  understand  me,  or  my  motives 
— I'm  going  to  talk  as  man  to  man,  stripped  bare.  In  the 
future  you  can  work  it  out  any  way  you're  able  to.  What 
I  want  at  the  present  is  to  clear  the  rubbish  away  that's 
cluttering  the  soul  of  a  woman.  That's  enough  and  you  can 
draw  what  damned  conclusions  you  want  to." 

There  was  an  ugly  gleam  in  Larry's  eyes.  Men  stripped 
bare  show  brutish  traits,  but  he  felt  the  straps  that  were 
binding  him  close. 

"Go  on!"  he  growled. 

"You  are  to  get  your  wife  to  give  you  this  Point,  Rivers. 
She  may  not  want  to,  but  you  must  force  her  a  bit  there  by 
confessing  to  her  the  whole  damned  truth  from  start  to  finish 
about — these!" 

Both  men  looked  at  the  mass  of  papers. 

"What  all  these  things  represent,  you  know."  Larry  did 
not  move;  he  believed  that  Northrup  knew,  too.  Knew  of 
that  year  back  in  the  past  when  his  trick  had  been  his  ruin. 
"And  your  simply  getting  out  of  sight  won't  do.  Your  wife 
has  got  to  be  free — free,  do  you  understand  ?  So  long  as  she 
doesn't  know  the  truth  she'd  have  pity  for  you — women  are 
like  that — she's  going  to  know  all  there  is  to  know,  and  then 
she'll  fling  you  off!" 

In  the  hidden  depths  of  Rivers's  nature  there  heaved  and 
roared  something  that,  had  Northrup  not  held  the  reins, 
would  have  meant  battle  to  the  death.  It  was  not  outraged 
honour,  love,  or  justice  that  blinded  and  deafened  Larry;  it 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  181 

was  simply  the  brutish  resentment  of  the  savage  who,  bound 
and  gagged,  watches  a  strong  foe  take  all  that  he  had  believed 
was  his  by  right  of  conquest.  At  that  moment  he  hated 
Mary-Clare  as  he  hated  Northrup. 

"You  damned  scoundrel!"  he  gasped.  "And  if  I  do  what 
you  suggest,  what  then?"  He  meant  to  force  Northrup  as 
far  as  he  dared. 

A  look  that  Rivers  was  never  to  forget  spread  over  North- 
rup's  face;  it  was  the  look  of  one  who  had  lived  through  ex- 
periences he  knew  he  could  not  make  clear.  The  impossi- 
bility of  making  Rivers  comprehend  him  presently  overcame 
Northrup.  He  spread  his  hands  wide  and  said  hopelessly: 

"Nothing!" 

"Like  hell,  nothing!"  Larry  was  desperate  and  brutal. 
Under  all  his  bravado  rang  the  note  of  defeat;  terror,  and  a 
barren  hope  of  escape  that  he  loathed  while  he  clung  to  it. 
"I  don't  know  what  Maclin's  game  is — I've  played  fair. 
Whatever  you've  got  on  him  can't  touch  me,  when  the 
truth's  out."  Rivers  was  breathing  hard;  the  sweat  stood  on 
his  forehead.  "But  when  it  comes  to  selling  your  wife  for 
hush  money " 

"Stop  that!"  Northrup's  face  was  livid.  He  wanted  to 
throttle  Rivers  but  he  could  not  shake  off  the  feeling  of  pity 
for  the  man  he  had  so  tragically  in  his  grip. 

There  was  a  heavy  pause.  It  seemed  weighted  with  tangible 
things.  Hate;  pity;  distrust;  helpless  truth.  They  became 
alive  and  fluttering.  Then  truth  alone  was  supreme. 

"I  told  you,  Rivers,  that  I  knew  you  couldn't  believe  me — 
you  cannot.  Partly  this  is  due  to  life,  as  we  men  know  it; 
partly  to  your  interpretation  of  it,  but  at  least  I  owe  it  to  you 
and  myself  to  speak  the  truth  and  let  truth  take  care  of  itself. 
By  the  code  that  is  current  in  the  world,  I  might  claim  all 
that  you  believe  I  am  after,  for  I  think  your  wife  might  learn 
to  love  me — I  know  I  love  her.  If  I  set  her  free  from  you, 
permit  her  to  see  you  as  you  are,  in  her  shock  and  relief  she 
might  turn  to  me  and  I  might  take  her  and,  God  helping  me, 
make  a  safe  place  for  her;  give  her  what  her  hungry  soul 
craves,  and  still  feel  myself  a  good  sort.  That  would  be  the 


i82  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

common  story — the  thing  that  might  once  have  happened. 
But,  Rivers,  you  don't  know  me  and  you  don't  know — your 
wife.  I've  only  caught  the  glimmer  of  her,  but  that  has 
caused  me  to  grow — humble.  She's  got  to  be  free,  because 
that  is  justice,  and  you  and  I  must  give  it  to  her.  When  you 
free  her — it's  up  to  me  not  to  cage  her!"  Northrup  found 
expression  difficult — it  all  sounded  so  utterly  hopeless  with 
that  doubting,  sneering  face  confronting  him;  and  his  late 
distrust  of  himself — menacing. 

"Besides,  your  wife  has  her  own  ideals.  That's  hard  for 
us  men  to  understand.  Ideals  quite  detached  from  us;  from 
all  that  we  might  like  to  believe  is  good  for  us.  I  have  my 
own  life,  Rivers.  Frankly,  I  was  tempted  to  turn  my  back 
on  it  and  with  courage  set  sail  for  a  new  port.  I  had  contem- 
plated that,  but  I'm  going  back  to  it  and,  bv  God's  help,  live 
it!" 

And  now  Northrup's  face  twitched.  He  waited  a  moment 
and  then  went  hopelessly  on: 

"What  the  future  holds — who  knows?  Life  is  a  thunder- 
ing big  thing,  Rivers,  if  we  play  it  square,  and  I'm  going  to 
play  it  square  as  it's  given  me  to  see  it.  You  don't  believe 
me  ? "  Almost  a  wistfulness  rang  in  the  words.  Larry  leaned 
back  and  laughed  a  hollow,  ugly  laugh. 

"  Believe  you  ?"  he  said.     "  Hell,  no ! " 

"I  thought  you  couldn't."     Northrup  got  up. 

Around  the  edges  of  the  lowered  shades,  a  gray,  drear 
light  gave  warning  of  coming  day.  The  effect  of  Larry's  last 
drink  was  wearing  off — he  looked  near  the  breaking  point. 

"  Rivers,  I'll  make  a  pact  with  you.  Set  your  wife  free — in 
my  way.  If  you  do  that,  I'll  leave  the  place;  never  see  her 
again  unless  a  higher  power  than  yours  or  mine  decrees  other- 
wise in  the  years  on  ahead.  Take  your  last  chance,  man,  to 
do  the  only  decent  thing  left  you  to  do:  start  afresh  some- 
where else.  Forget  it  all.  I  know  this  sounds  devilish  easy 
and  I  know  it's  devilish  hard,  but" — and  here  the  iron  was 
driven  into  Rivers's  consciousness — "either  you  or  I  set 
Mary-Clare  free  before"  — he  hesitated;  he  wanted  to  give  all 
that  he  humanly  could — "before  another  forty-eight  hours." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  183 

Larry  felt  the  cold  perspiration  start  on  his  forehead;  his 
stomach  grew  sick. 

Faint  and  fear-filled,  he  seemed  to  feel  Maclin  after  him; 
Mary-Clare  confronting  him,  smileless,  terrifying.  On  the 
other  hand  he  saw  freedom;  money;  a  place  in  which  he  could 
breathe,  once  more,  with  Maclin's  hands  off  his  throat  and 
Mary-Clare's  coldness  forgotten. 

"I'll  go  to  her;  I'll  do  your  hell-work,  but  give  me  another 
day."  He  gritted  his  teeth. 

"Rivers,  this  is  Tuesday.  On  Friday  you  must  be  gone, 
and  remember  this:  I've  got  it  in  my  power  to  set  your  wife 
free  and  imprison  you  and  I'll  not  hesitate  to  do  it  if  you  try 
any  tricks.  I'd  advise  you  to  keep  clear  of  Maclin  and  leave 
whiskey  alone.  You'll  need  all  the  power  of  concentration 
you  can  summon."  Then  Northrup  turned  to  the  table  and 
gathered  up  the  scattered  papers. 

"What "  Larry  put  out  a  trembling  hand. 

"I'll  take  charge  of  these,"  Northrup  said.  "I  am  going 
to  give  them  to  the  Heathcotes.  They'll  keep  them  with  the 
other  papers  belonging  to  your  wife." 

"Curse  you!" 

"Good  morning,  Rivers!  I  mean  it,  good  morning!  You 
won't  believe  this  either,  but  it's  so.  For  the  sake  of  your 
wife  and  your  little  girl,  I  wish  you  well.  When  you  send 
word  to  the  inn  that  you  are  ready  for  the  business  deal  I'll 
have  the  money  for  you." 

Then  Northrup  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out  into  the 
chill  light  of  the  coming  day.  He  shivered  and  stumbled 
over  a  mass  of  rubbish.  A  clock  struck  in  a  quiet  house. 

"Five  o'clock,"  counted  Northrup,  and  plunging  his  hands 
»n  his  pockets  he  made  his  way  to  Twombley's  shack. 


CHAPTER  XV 

KYTHRYN  MORRIS  had  her  plans  completed,  and 
if  the  truth  were  known  she  had  never  felt  better 
pleased  with  herself — and  she  was  not  utterly  de- 
praved, either. 

She  was  far  more  the  primitive  female  than  was  Mary 
Clare.  She  was  simply  claiming  what  she  devoutly  believed 
was  her  own;  reclaiming  it,  rather,  for  she  sagely  concluded 
that  on  this  runaway  trip  Northrup  was  in  great  danger  and 
only  the  faith  and  love  of  a  good  woman  could  save  himl 
Kathryn  believed  herself  good  and  noble. 

Mary-Clare  had  her  Place  in  which  she  had  been  fed 
through  many  lonely,  yearning  years,  but  Kathryn  had  no 
such  sanctuary.  The  dwelling-places  of  her  fellow  creatures 
were  good  enough  for  her  and  she  never  questioned  the  codes 
that  governed  them — though  sometimes  she  evaded  them! 

After  her  talk  with  Helen  Northrup,  Kathryn  did  a  deal 
of  thinking,  but  she  moved  cautiously.  She  had  never  for- 
gotten the  address  on  Northrup's  letter  to  his  mother  and  she 
believed  he  was  still  there.  She  again  looked  up  road  maps, 
located  King's  Forest,  and  made  some  clever  calculations. 
She  could  go  in  the  motor.  The  autumn  was  just  the  time 
for  such  a  trip.  It  would  be  easy  to  satisfy  her  aunt,  Kathryn 
very  well  knew.  The  mere  statement  that  she  was  going 
to  meet  Northrup  and  return  with  him  would  account  for 
everything  and  relieve  the  situation  existing  at  present  with 
Sandy  Arnold  in  daily  evidence.  "And  if  Brace  is  not  play- 
ing in  some  messy  puddle  in  his  old  Forest,  I  can  get  on  his 
trail  from  there,"  she  reasoned  secretly. 

But,  for  some  uncanny  cause,  Kathryn  was  confident  that 
Northrup  was  at  his  first  address.  It  was  so  like  him  to  creep 
into  a  hole  and  be  very  dramatic  and  secretive.  It  was  his 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  185 

temperament,  Kathryn  felt,  and  she  steeled  herself  against 
him. 

On  the  morning  that  Northrup  staggered  over  the  rubbish 
of  Hunter's  Point  toward  Twombley's,  Kathryn  took  her 
place  in  her  limousine — her  nice  little  travelling  bag  at  her 
feet — and  viewed  with  complacency  the  back  of  her  Japanese 
chauffeur  who  had  absorbed  and  digested  all  her  directions 
and  would  be,  henceforth,  a  well-oiled,  safe-running  part  of 
the  machinery,  without  curiosity  or  opinions. 

They  stopped  for  luncheon  at  a  comfortable  road-house, 
rested  for  an  hour,  and  then  went  on.  It  was  mid-afternoon 
when  the  yellow  house  at  the  crossroads  made  its  appeal  to 
be  questioned. 

"I'll  run  in  and  ask  the  way,"  Kathryn  explained,  and 
slowly  went  up  to  the  door  that  once  opened  so  humorously 
to  Northrup's  touch.  Again  the  door  responded,  and  a  bit 
startled,  Kathryn  found  herself  in  the  presence  of  a  dull-faced 
girl  seated  by  the  table  apparently  doing  nothing. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Really,  I  did  knock — the  door  just 
opened."  Kathryn  was  confused  and  stepped  back. 

In  all  her  dun-coloured  life  Jan-an  had  never  seen  anything 
so  wonderful  as  the  girl  on  the  doorstep.  She  was  not  at  all 
sure  but  that  she  was  one  of  Noreen's  fiction  creatures. 
There  was  a  story  that  Northrup  had  told  Noreen  about 
Eve's  Other  Children,  and  for  an  instant  Jan-an  estimated 
the  likelihood  of  the  stranger  being  one — she  wasn't  altogether 
wrong,  either! 

"What  you  want?"  she  asked  cautiously.  Jan-an  was,  as 
she  put  it,  "  all  skew-y,"  for  the  work  of  the  evening  before 
had  brought  her  to  a  more  confused  state  than  usual. 

The  world  was  widening — she  included  Northrup  now  in 
her  circle  of  protection  and  she  wasn't  sure  what  Eve's  Other 
Children  were  capable  of  doing. 

"I  want  to  find  out  the  way  to  the  inn,  Heathcote  Inn." 
Kathryn  smiled  alluringly. 

"Why  don't  you  look  at  the  sign?"  There  was  witchery 
about  that  sign,  certainly. 

"  I  did  not  see  the  sign.     Please  excuse  me."    Then,  "  Do 


186  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

you  happen  to  know  if  there  is  a  Mr.  Northrup  at  the 
inn?" 

"He  sleeps  there!"  Jan-an  looked  stupid  but  honest. 
"  Days,  he  takes  to  the  woods." 

Jan-an  meant,  as  soon  as  the  unearthly  visitor  departed, 
to  find  Northrup  and  give  the  alarm.  Kathryn  thanked  the 
girl  sweetly  and  returned  to  her  car.  As  she  did  so  she  saw 
the  sign-board  as  Northrup  had  before  her,  and  felt  a  bit 
foolish,  but  she  also  recalled  that  Northrup  might  be  in  the 
woods! 

"You  may  go  on  to  the  inn,"  she  said  to  her  man,  "and 
make  arrangements.  I  am  going  to  remain  over  night  and 
start  back  early  to-morrow  morning.  Explain  that  I  am 
walking  and  will  be  there  shortly." 

The  quiet  man  at  the  door  of  the  car  touched  his  cap  and 
took  his  place  at  the  wheel. 

This  was  to  Kathryn  a  thrilling  adventure.  The  silence 
and  beauty  were  as  novel  as  any  experience  she  had  ever 
known,  and  her  pulses  quickened.  The  solitude  of  the  woods 
was  not  restful  to  her,  but  it  stimulated  every  sense.  The 
leaves  were  dropping  from  the  trees;  the  sunlight  slanted 
through  the  lacy  boughs  in  exquisite  design,  and  the  sky  was 
as  blue  as  midsummer.  There  was  a  smell  of  wood  smoke 
in  the  crisp  air;  the  feel  of  the  sweet  leaves,  underfoot,  was 
delightful.  Kathryn  "scruffed"  along,  unmindful  of  her 
high  heels  and  thin  silk  stockings.  She  did  not  know  that 
she  could  be  so  excited. 

She  crossed  the  road  and  turned  to  the  hill.  An  impish 
impulse  swayed  her.  If  she  came  upon  Northrup!  Well, 
how  romantic  and  thrilling  it  would  be!  She  fancied  his 

surprise;  his Here  she  paused.  Would  it  be  joy  or 

consternation  that  would  betray  Northrup? 

Now,  as  it  happened,  Mary-Clare  had  given  her  morning 
up  to  the  business  of  the  Point  and  she  was  worn  and  super- 
sensitive.  An  underlying  sense  of  hurry  was  upon  her. 
When  she  had  done  all  that  she  could  do,  she  meant  to  go  to 
her  Place  and  lay  her  tired  soul  open  to  the  influence  that 
flooded  the  quiet  sanctuary.  All  day  this  had  sustained  her. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  187 

She  would  leave  Noreen  at  the  inn;  send  Jan-an  back  there, 
and  would,  after  her  hour  in  the  cabin,  seek  Larry  out  and 
give  him  what  he  asked — the  Point. 

Through  the  hours  at  the  inn  she  had  feared  Northrup's 
appearance,  but  when  she  learned  that  he  had  been  away 
all  night,  she  feared  for  him.  Her  uneventful  days  seemed 
gone  forever,  and  yet  Mary-Clare  knew  that  soon — oh,  very 
soon — there  would  be  to-morrows,  just  plain  to-morrows 
running  one  into  another. 

She  was  distressed,  too,  that  Larry  was  to  have  the  Point. 
Aunt  Polly  had  shaken  her  head  over  it  and  remarked  that  it 
seemed  like  dropping  the  Pointers  into  Maclin's  mouth. 
But  Peter  reassured  her. 

"I  see  your  side,  child,"  he  comforted.  "What  the  old 
doc  said  goes  with  you." 

"But  it  was  Larry,  not  the  doctor,  as  specified  the  Point," 
Polly  insisted. 

"All  right,  all  right,"  Peter  patted  Polly's  shoulder. 
"Have  it  your  own  way,  but  I  see  it  at  this  angle.  Give 
Larry  what  he  wants;  Maclin  has  Larry,  anyway,  but  if  he 
keeps  him  here  where  we  can  watch  what's  going  on,  I'll  feel 
easier.  He'll  show  his  hand  on  the  Point,  take  my  word  for 
it.  Larry  gallivanting  is  one  thing,  Larry  with  Twombley 
and  Peneluna,  not  to  mention  us  all,  is  another.  You  let  go, 
Mary-Clare,  and  see  what  happens." 

"Well,  I  hold"— Aunt  Polly  was  curiously  stubborn — "that 
Larry  Rivers  don't  want  that  Point  any  more  than  a  toad 
wants  a  pocket." 

"All  right,  all  right!"  Peter  grew  red  and  his  hair  sprang 
up.  "Put  it  as  you  choose.  This  may  bring  things  to  a 
head.  I  swear  the  whole  world  is  like  a  throbbing  and 
thundering  boil — it's  got  to  bust,  the  world  and  King's 
Forest.  I  say,  then,  let  'em  bust  and  have  done  with  it." 

At  four  o'clock  the  business  of  the  day  was  over  and  Mary- 
Clare  was  ready  to  start.  Then  Noreen,  with  the  perversity 
of  children,  complicated  matters. 

"Motherly,  let  me  go,  too,"  she  pleaded. 

"Childie,  Mother  wants  to  be  alone." 


188  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"Why  for?" 

"Because,  well,  I  must  think." 

"Then  let  me  stay  home  with  Jan-an." 

"Dearie,  I'm  going  to  send  Jan-an  back  here." 

"Why  for?" 

"Mary-Clare,"  Peter  broke  in,  "that  child  is  perishing  for 
a  paddling." 

Noreen  ran  to  Peter  and  hugged  him. 

"You  old  grifferty-giff! "  she  whispered,  falling  into  her 
absurd  jargon,  "just  gifferting." 

Then  she  went  back  to  her  mother  and  said  impishly: 

"I  know!  You  don't  want  me  to  see  my  father!"  Then, 
pointing  a  finger  at  Mary-Clare,  she  demanded:  "Why 
didn't  you  pick  a  nice  father  for  me  when  you  were  picking?" 

The  irrelevancy  of  the  question  only  added  to  its  stagger- 
ing effect.  Mary-Clare  looked  hopelessly  at  her  child. 

"I  didn't  have  any  choice,  Noreen,"  she  said. 

"You  mean  God  gave  him  to  you?" 

"See  here,  Noreen" — Polly  Heathcote  rose  to  the  call — 
"stop  pestering  your  mother  with  silly  talk.  Come  along 
with  me,  we'll  make  a  mess  of  taffy." 

"All  right!"  Noreen  turned  joyously  to  this  suggestion, 
but  paused  to  add:  "If  God  gave  my  father  to  us,  I  s'pose  we 
must  make  the  best  of  it.  God  knows  what  He  is  doing — 
Jan-an  says  He  even  knew  what  He  was  doing  when  He 
nearly  spoiled  her." 

With  this,  Aunt  Polly  dragged  Noreen  away  and  Mary- 
Clare  left  the  house  haunted  by  what  Noreen  had  said. 
Children  can  weave  themselves  into  the  scheme  of  life  in  a 
vivid  manner,  and  this  Noreen  had  done.  In  her  deal- 
ings with  Larry,  Mary-Clare  knew  she  must  not  overlook 
Noreen. 

Now,  if  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread,  surely  they 
often  rush  to  their  undoing.  Kathryn  followed  the  trail  to 
the  cabin  in  the  woods,  breathlessly  and  in  momentary  danger 
of  breaking  her  ankles,  for  she  teetered  painfully  on  her 
French  heels  and  humorously  wished  that  when  the  Lord 
was  making  hills  He  had  made  them  all  down-grade;  but  at 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  189 

last  she  came  in  sight  of  the  vine-covered  shack  and  stood 
still  to  consider. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Kathryn  that  she  never  doubted 
her  intuitions  until  she  was  left  high  and  dry  by  their  in- 
capacity to  hold  her  up. 

"Ho!  ho!"  she  murmured.  "So  this  is  where  he  burrows? 
Another  edition  of  the  East  Side  tenement  room  where  he 
hid  while  writing  his  abominable  book!" 

Kathryn  went  nearer,  stepping  carefully — Northrup  might 
be  inside!  No;  the  strange  room  was  empty!  Kathryn 
recalled  the  one  visit  she  had  made  to  the  tenement  while 
Northrup  was  writing.  There  had  been  a  terrible  woman 
with  a  mop  outside  the  door  there  who  would  not  let  her  pass; 
who  had  even  cast  unpleasant  suggestions  at  her — sugges- 
tions that  had  made  Kathryn's  cheeks  burn. 

She  had  never  told  Northrup  about  that  visit;  she  would 
not  tell  him  about  this  one,  either,  unless  her  hand  were 
forced.  In  case  he  came  upon  her,  she  saw,  vividly,  herself 
in  a  dramatic  act — she  would  be  a  beautiful  picture  of  tender 
girlhood  nestling  in  his  environment,  led  to  him  by  sore  need 
and  loving  intuition. 

Kathryn,  thus  reinforced  by  her  imagination,  went  boldly 
in,  sat  down  by  the  crude  table,  smiled  at  the  Bible  lying  open 
before  her — then  she  raised  her  eyes  to  Father  Damien.  The 
face  was  familiar  and  Kathryn  concluded  it  must  be  a  repro- 
duction of  some  famous  painting  of  the  Christ! 

That,  and  the  Bible,  made  the  girl  smile.  Temperament 
was  insanity,  nothing  less! 

Kathryn  looked  about  for  evidences  of  Northrup's  craft. 

"I  suppose  he  takes  his  precious  stuff  away  with  him. 
Afraid  of  fires  or  wild  beasts." 

This  latter  thought  wasn't  pleasant  and  Kathryn  turned 
nervously  to  the  door.  As  she  did  so  her  arm  pushed  the 
Bible  aside  and  there,  disclosed  to  her  ferret  glance,  were  the 
pages  of  Northrup's  manuscript,  duplicate  sheets,  that  Mary- 
Clare  had  been  rereading. 

"Ho!  ho!"  Kathryn  spread  them  before  her  and  read 
greedily — not  sympathetically — but  amusedly. 


190  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

There  were  references  to  eyes,  hair,  expressions;  even 
"mud-stained  breeches."  With  elbows  on  the  table,  daintily 
gloved  hands  supporting  her  chin,  Kathryn  read  and  thought 
and  wove  her  plot  with  Northrup's  words,  but  half  under- 
stood, lying  under  her  gaze. 

Suddenly  Kathryn's  eyes  widened — her  ears  caught  a 
sound.  Never  while  she  lived  was  Kathryn  Morris  to  forget 
her  sensations  of  that  moment,  for  they  were  coloured  and 
weighted  by  events  that  followed  rapidly,  dramatically. 

In  the  doorway  stood  Mary-Clare,  a  very  embodiment  of 
the  girl  described  in  the  pages  on  the  table.  The  tall,  slim, 
boyish  figure  in  rough  breeches,  coat,  and  cap,  was  a  staggering 
apparition.  The  beauty  of  the  surprised  face  did  not  appeal 
to  Kathryn,  but  she  was  not  for  one  instant  deceived  as  to 
the  sex  of  the  person  on  the  threshold,  and  her  none-too-pure 
mind  made  a  wild  and  dangerous  leap  to  a  most  unstable 
point  of  disadvantage. 

The  girl  in  the  doorway  in  some  stupefying  fashion  repre- 
sented the  "Fight"  and  the  "Puddle"  of  Northrup's  adven- 
ture. If  Kathryn  thought  at  all,  it  was  to  the  effect  that  she 
had  known  from  start  to  finish  the  whole  miserable  business, 
and  she  acted  upon  this  unconscious  conclusion  with  never  a 
doubt  in  her  mind.  The  two  women,  in  silence,  stared  at 
each  other  for  one  of  those  moments  that  can  never  be  meas- 
ured by  rule.  During  the  palpitating  silence  they  were 
driven  together,  while  yet  separated  by  a  great  space. 

Kathryn's  conclusion  drove  her  on  the  rocks;  Mary-Clare's 
startled  her  into  a  state  of  clear  vision.  She  recovered  her 
poise  first.  She  smiled  her  perturbing  smile;  she  came  in 
and  sat  down  and  said  quietly: 

"I  was  surprised.     I  am  still." 

Kathryn  felt  a  wave  of  moral  repugnance  rise  to  her  assist- 
ance. The  clothes  might  disguise  the  real  state  of  affairs — 
but  the  voice  betrayed  much.  This  was  no  crude  country 
girl;  here  was  something  rather  more  difficult  to  handle;  one 
need  not  be  pitiful  and  condoning;  one  must  not  flinch. 

"You  expected,  I  suppose,  to  find  Mr.  Northrup?" 

When  Kathryn  was  deeply  moved  she  spoke  out  of  the 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  191 

corner  of  her  mouth.  It  was  an  unpleasant  trick — her  lips 
became  hard  and  twisted. 

"Oh!  no,  I  did  not,  nor  anyone  else."  The  name  seemed 
to  hurt  and  Mary-Clare  leaned  back.  "May  I  ask  who  you 
are?"  she  said.  Mary-Clare  was  indignant  at  she  hardly 
knew  what;  hurt,  too,  by  what  was  steadying  her.  She  knew 
beyond  doubt  that  the  woman  near  her  was  one  of  Northrup's 
world ! 

"I  am  Miss  Morris.  I  am  engaged  to  be  married  to  Mr. 
Northrup." 

It  were  better  to  cut  deep  while  cutting,  and  Kathryn's 
nerve  was  now  set  to  her  task.  She  unrelentingly  eyed  her 
victim.  She  went  on: 

"I  can  see  how  this  must  shock  you.  I  sent  my  car  on 
to  the  inn.  I  wanted  a  walk  and — well!  I  came  upon  this 
place.  Fate  is  such  a  strange  thing." 

Kathryn  ran  her  words  along  rather  wildly.  The  silence 
of  her  companion,  the  calm  way  in  which  she  was  regarding 
her,  were  having  an  unpleasant  effect.  When  Kathryn  be- 
came aware  of  her  own  voice  she  was  apt  to  talk  too  much 
— she  grew  confidential. 

"Mr.  Northrup's  mother  is  ill.  She  needs  him.  The  way 
I  have  known  all  this  right  along  is  simply  a  miracle." 

How  much  more  Kathryn  might  have  said  she  was  never 
to  know,  for  Mary-Clare  raised  a  hand  as  though  to  stay  the 
inane  torrent. 

"What  can  you  possibly  mean,"  she  asked,  and  her  eyes 
darkened,  "by  knowing  this  all  along?  I  do  not  understand 
— what  have  you  known?" 

Then  Kathryn  sank  in  a  morass. 

"Oh!  do  be  sensible,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  hard  and 
cold.  "You  must  see  I  have  found  you  out — why  pretend? 
When  a  man  like  Mr.  Northrup  leaves  home  and  forgets  his 
duties — does  not  even  write,  buries  himself  in  such  a  place  as 
this  and  stays  on — what  does  it  mean  ?  What  can  it  possibly 
mean?" 

Mary-Clare  was  spared  much  of  what  Kathryn  was  creat- 
ing because  she  was  so  far  away — so  far,  far  away  from  the 


i92  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

true  significance  of  it  all.  She  was  seeing  Northrup  as  Kath- 
ryn  had  never  seen  him;  would  never  see  him.  She  realized 
his  danger.  It  was  all  so  sudden  and  revolting.  Only  re- 
cently had  she  imagined  his  past,  his  environment;  she  had 
taken  him  as  a  wonderful  experience  in  her  barren,  sterile  life, 
but  now  she  considered  him  as  threatened  from  an  unsus- 
pected source.  A  natural  revulsion  from  the  type  that 
Kathryn  Morris  represented  for  a  moment  oppressed  her, 
but  she  dared  not  think  of  that  nor  of  her  own  right  to  resent 
the  hateful  slurs  cast  upon  her.  She  must  do  what  she  could 
for  Northrup — do  it  more  or  less  blindly,  crudely,  but  she 
must  go  as  she  saw  light  and  was  given  time. 

"You  are  terribly  wrong  about — everything."  Mary-Clare 
spoke  quietly  but  her  words  cut  like  bits  of  hail.  "If  you  are 
going,  as  you  say,  to  be  Mr.  Northrup's  wife,  you  must  try 
and  believe  what  I  am  saying  now  for  your  own  sake,  but 
more  for  his." 

Kathryn  tried  to  say  "Insolence!"  but  could  not;  she 
merely  sat  back  in  her  chair  and  flashed  an  angry  glance  that 
Mary-Clare  did  not  heed. 

"Mr.  Northrup  is  writing  a  beautiful  book.  The  book  is 
himself.  He  does  not  realize  how  much  it  is " 

"Indeed!"  Kathryn  did  utter  the  one  word,  then  added: 
"I  suppose  he's  read  it  to  you?" 

"Yes,  he  has." 

"Here,  I  suppose?     By  the  fire,  alone  with  you?" 

"No,  under  the  trees,  out  there." 

Mary-Clare  turned  and  glanced  at  the  pure,  open  woods. 
"It  is  a  beautiful  book,"  she  repeated. 

"Oh!  go  on,  do!  Really  this  is  too  utterly  ridiculous.'* 
Kathryn  laughed  impatiently.  "We'll  take  for  granted  the 
beauty  of  the  book." 

"No,  I  cannot  go  on.  You  would  not  understand.  It  does 
not  matter.  What  I  want  you  to  know  is  this — he  could  not 
do  an  ugly,  low  thing.  If  you  wrong  him  there,  you  will 
never  be  forgiven,  for  it  would  hurt  the  soul  of  him;  the  part 
of  him  that  no  one — not  even  you  who  will  be  his  wife — has  a 
right  to  hurt  or  touch.  You  must  make  him  believe  in  women. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  193 

Oh !  I  wish  I  could  make  you  see — that  was  the  matter  with 
his  beautiful  book — I  can  understand  now.  He  did  not 
know  women;  but  if  you  believe  what  I  am  saying,  all  will  be 
right;  you  can  make  him  know  the  truth.  I  can  imagine 
/iow  you  might  think  wrong — it  never  occurred  to  me  before 
— the  woods,  the  loneliness,  all  the  rest,  but,  because  every- 
thing has  been  right,  it  makes  him  all  the  finer.  You  do 
believe  me!  You  must!  Tell  me  that  you  do!" 

Mary-Clare  was  desperate.  It  was  like  trying  to  save 
someone  from  a  flood  that  was  carrying  him  to  the  rapids. 
The  unreality  of  the  situation  alone  made  anything  possible, 
but  Kathryn  suddenly  reduced  the  matter  to  the  deadly 
commonplace. 

"No,  I  do  not  believe  you,"  she  said  bitterly.  "I  am  a 
woman  of  the  world.  I  hate  to  say  what  I  must,  but  there 
is  so  little  time  now,  and  there  will  be  no  time  later  on,  so 
you'll  have  to  take  what  you  have  brought  upon  yourself. 
This  whole  thing  is  pitifully  cheap  and  ordinary — the  only 
gleam  of  difference  in  it  is  that  you  are  rather  unusual — more 
dangerous  on  that  account.  I  simply  cannot  account  for  you, 
but  it  doesn't  really  interest  me.  When  Mr.  Northrup  writes 
his  books,  he  always  does  what  he  has  done  now.  It's  rather 
brutal  and  cold-blooded  but  so  it  is.  He  has  used  you — you 
have  been  material  for  him.  If  there  is  nothing  worse" — • 
Kathryn  flushed  here — "it  is  because  I  have  come  in  time. 
May  I  ask  you  now  to  leave  me  here  in  Mr.  Northrup's" — 
Kathryn  sought  the  proper  word — "study?"  she  said  lamely. 
"I  will  rest  awhile;  try  to  compose  myself.  If  he  comes  I 
will  meet  him  here.  If  not,  I  will  go  to  the  inn  later." 

Kathryn  rose.  So  did  Mary-Clare.  The  two  girls  faced 
each  other.  The  table  lay  between  them,  but  it  seemed  the 
width  of  the  whole  world. 

"I  would  have  helped  you  and  him,  if  I  could."  Mary- 
Clare's  voice  sounded  like  the  "ghost  wind"  seeking  wearily, 
in  a  lost  way,  rest.  "But  I  see  that  I  cannot.  This  is  not 
Mr.  Northrup's  Place — it  is  mine.  I  built  it  myself — no 
foot  but  mine — and  now  yours — has  ever  entered  here.  I 
Viave  always  come  here  to — to  think;  to  read.  I  wonder  if 


194  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

I  ever  will  be  able  to  again,  for  you  have  done  something  very 
dreadful  to  it.  You  will  do  it  to  his  life  unless  God  keeps  you 
from  it."  Mary-Clare  was  thinking  aloud,  taking  no  heed  of 
her  companion. 

"How  dare  you!"  Kathryn's  face  flamed  and  then  turned 
pale  as  death. 

Mary-Clare  was  moving  toward  the  door.  When  she 
reached  it  she  stood  as  a  hostess  might  while  a  guest  departed. 

"Please  go!"  she  said  simply,  but  it  had  the  effect  of  taking 
Kathryn  by  the  shoulders  and  forcing  her  outside.  With 
flaming  face,  dyeing  the  white  anger,  she  flung  herself  along. 
Once  outside  she  turned,  looking  cheap  and  mean  for  all  the 
trappings  of  her  station  in  life. 

"I  want  you  to  understand,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  deal- 
ing with  a  woman  of  the  world,  not  a  sentimental  fool." 

Mary-Clare  inclined  her  head.  She  did  not  speak.  She 
watched  her  uninvited  guest  go  down  the  trail,  pass  out  of 
sight.  Then  she  went  back  to  her  chair  to  recover  from  the 
shock  that  had  dazed  her. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  little  cabin  could  not  long  be  pol- 
luted by  so  brief  an  experience  as  had  just  occurred,  and 
presently  Mary-Clare  was  enfolded  by  the  old  comfort  and 
vision. 

She  could  weigh  and  estimate  things  now,  and  this  she  did 
bravely,  justly.  Like  Northrup  in  Larry's  cabin  the  night 
before,  she  became  more  a  sensitive  plate  upon  which  pictures 
flashed,  than  a  personality  that  was  thinking  and  suffering. 
Such  things  as  had  now  happened  to  her,  she  knew,  happened 
in  books.  Always  books,  books,  for  Mary-Clare,  and  the 
old  doctor's  philosophy  that  gave  strength  but  no  assurance. 
The  actual  relation  existing  between  Northrup  and  herself 
became  a  solid  and  immovable  fact.  She  had  not  fully 
accepted  it  before;  neither  had  he.  They  had  played 
with  it  as  they  had  the  golden  hours  that  they  would  not 
count  or  measure. 

Nothing  mattered  but  the  truth.  Mary-Clare  knew 
that  the  wonderful  thing  had  had  no  part  in  her  decision  as 
to  Larry — others  would  not  believe  that,  but  she  must  not 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  195 

be  swayed;  she  knew  she  had  taken  her  steps  faithfully  as 
she  had  seen  them — she  must  not  stumble  now  because  of 
any  one,  anything. 

"It's  what  you  do  to  love  that  counts!"  Almost  fiercely 
Mary-Clare  grasped  this.  And  in  that  moment  Noreen, 
Northrup's  mother,  even  Larry  and  the  girl  who  had  just  de- 
parted, put  in  their  claim.  She  must  consider  them;  they 
were  all  part  with  Northrup  and  her. 

"There  is  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  wait."  Mary-Clare 
seemed  to  hear  herself  speaking  the  words.  "I  can  do  noth- 
ing now  but  wait.  But  I  will  not  fear  the  Truth." 

The  bared  Truth  stood  revealed;  before  it  Mary-Clare  did 
not  flinch. 

"This  is  what  it  has  all  meant.  The  happiness,  the  joy, 
the  strange  intensity  of  common  things." 

Then  Mary-Clare  bowed  her  head  upon  her  folded  arms 
while  the  warm  sunlight  came  into  the  doorway  and  lay  full 
upon  her.  She  was  absorbed  in  something  too  big  to  com- 
prehend. She  felt  as  if  she  was  being  born  into — a  woman! 
The  birth-pains  were  wrenching;  she  could  not  grasp  anything 
beyond  them,  but  she  counted  every  one  and  gloried  in  it. 

The  Big  Thing  that  poor  Peneluna  had  known  was  claiming 
Mary-Clare.  It  could  not  be  denied;  it  might  be  starved  but 
it  would  not  die. 

Somewhere,  on  beyond 

But  oh !  Mary-Clare  was  young,  young,  and  her  beyond  was 
not  the  beyond  of  Peneluna;  or  if  it  were,  it  lay  far,  far  across 
a  desert  stretch. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

NORTHRUP  had  cast  himself  upon  Twombley's  hos- 
pitality with  the  plea  of  business.  He  outlined  a 
programme  and  demanded  silence. 

"I'm  going  to  buy  this  Point,"  he  confided,  "and  I'm  going 
to  go  away,  Twombley.  I'm  going  to  leave  things  exactly 
as  they  are  until — well,  perhaps  always.  Just  consider  your- 
self my  superintendent." 

Twombley  blinked. 

"Snatching  hot  cakes?"  he  asked.  "Spoiling  Maclin's 
meal?" 

"Something  like  that,  yes.  I  don't  know  what  all  this 
means,  Twombley,  but  I'm  going  to  take  no  chances.  I 
want  to  be  in  a  position  to  hit  square  if  anything  needs  hit- 
ting. If  no  one  knows  that  I'm  in  on  this  deal,  I'll  be  better 
pleased — but  I  want  you  to  keep  me  informed." 

Twombley  nodded. 

About  noon  Northrup  departed,  but  he  did  not  reach  the 
inn  until  nearly  dark. 

Heathcote  and  Polly  had  been  tremendously  agitated  by 
the  appearance  of  the  Morris  car  and  the  Japanese.  They 
were  in  a  sad  state  of  excitement.  The  vicious  circle  of  un- 
believable happenings  seemed  to  be  drawing  close. 

"I  guess  I'll  put  the  Chinese" — Peter  was  not  careful  as 
10  particulars — "out  in  the  barn  to  sleep,"  he  said,  but  Polly 
shook  her  head. 

"No,  keep  him  where  you  can  watch  'im,"  she  cautioned. 
"There'll  be  no  sleeping  for  me  while  this  unchristian  business 
is  afoot.  Peter,  what  do  you  suppose  the  creature  eats?" 

"I  ain't  studying  about  that" — Peter  shook  with  ner- 
vous laughter — "but  I'm  going  to  chain  Ginger  up.  I've 
heard  these  Chinese-ers  lean  to  animals." 

106 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  197 

"Nonsense,  brother!  But  do  you  suppose  the  young 
woman  what's  on  her  way  here  is  a  female  Chinese?" 

"The  Lord  knows!"  Peter  bristled.  "I  wish  Northrup 
would  fetch  up  and  handle  these  items  of  his.  My  God! 
Polly,  we  have  been  real  soft  toward  this  young  feller.  Ap- 
pearances and  our  dumb  feelings  about  folks  may  have  let 
us  all  in  for  some  terrible  results.  Maclin's  keener  than  us, 
perhaps." 

"Now,  brother" — Polly  was  bustling  around — "this  is  no 
time  to  set  my  nerves  on  edge.  Here  we  be;  here  all  this 
mess  is.  We  best  hold  tight." 

So  Peter  and  Polly  "held  tight"  while  inwardly  they  feared 
that  King's  Forest  was  in  deadly  peril  and  that  they  had  let 
the  unsuspecting  people  in  for  who  could  tell — what? 

About  five  o'clock  Kathryn  came  upon  the  scene.  Her 
late  encounter  had  left  her  careless  as  to  her  physical  appear- 
ance; she  was  a  bit  bedraggled  and  her  low  shoes  and  silk  hose 
— a  great  deal  of  the  latter  showing — were  evidences  against 
her  respectability. 

"  I'm  Mr.  Northrup's  fiancee,"  she  explained,  and  sank  into 
a  chair  by  the  hearth. 

Aunt  Polly  did  not  know  what  she  meant,  but  in  that  she 
belonged  to  Northrup,  she  must  be  recognized,  and  plainly 
she  was  not  Chinese! 

Peter  fixed  his  little,  sparkling  eyes  on  his  guest  and  his 
hair  rose  an  inch  while  his  face  reddened. 

"Perhaps  you  better  go  to  your  room,"  he  suggested  as  he 
might  to  a  naughty  child.  He  wanted  to  get  the  girl  out  of 
his  sight  and  he  hated  to  see  Polly  waiting  upon  her.  Kath- 
ryn detected  the  tone  and  it  roused  her.  No  man  ever  made 
an  escape  from  Kathryn  when  he  used  that  note!  Her  eyes 
filled  with  tears;  her  lips  quivered. 

"Mr.  Northrup's  mother  is  dying,"  she  faltered;  a  shade 
more  or  less  did  not  count  now — "help  me  to  be  brave  and 
calm  for  his  sake.  Please  be  my  friend  as  you  have  been 
his!" 

This  was  a  wild  guess  but  it  served  its  purpose.  Peter  felt 
like  a  brute  and  Aunt  Polly  was  all  a-tremble. 


198  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"  Dear  me!"  she  said,  hovering  over  the  girl,  "somehow  we 
never  thought  about  Brace's  folks  and  all  that.  Just  you 
come  upstairs  and  rest  and  wash.  I'll  fetch  you  some  nice 
hot  tea.  It's  terrible — his  mother  dying — and  you  having 
to  break  it  to  him."  Polly  led  Kathryn  away  and  Peter  sat 
wretchedly  alone. 

When  Polly  returned  he  was  properly  contrite  and  set  to 
work  assisting  with  the  evening  meal.  Polly  was  silent  for 
the  most  part,  but  she  was  deeply  concerned. 

"She  says  she's  going  to  marry  Brace,"  she  confided. 

"Well,  I  reckon  if  she  says  she  is,  she  is!"  Peter  grunted. 
"She  looks  capable  of  doing  it." 

"  Peter,  you  mustn't  be  hard." 

"I  hope  to  the  Lord  I  can  be  hard."  Peter  looked  grim. 
"It's  being  soft  and  easy  as  has  laid  us  open  to — what?" 

"  Peter,  you  give  me  the  creeps." 

Peter  and  Polly  were  in  the  kitchen  when  Kathryn  came 
downstairs.  She  had  had  a  bath  and  a  nap.  She  had  re- 
sorted to  her  toilet  aids  and  she  looked  pathetically  lovely 
as  she  crouched  by  the  hearth  in  the  empty  room  and  waited 
for  Northrup's  return.  Every  gesture  she  made  bespoke  the 
sweet  clinging  woman  bent  on  mercy's  task. 

She  again  saw  herself  in  a  dramatic  scene.  Northrup 
would  open  the  door — that  one!  Kathryn  fixed  her  eyes  on 
the  middle  door — he  would  look  at  her — reel  back;  call  her 
name,  and  she  would  rush  to  him,  fall  in  his  arms;  then  con- 
trol herself,  lead  him  to  the  fire  and  break  the  sad  news  to  him 
gently,  sweetly.  He  would  kneel  at  her  feet,  bury  his  face  in 
her  lap 

But  while  Kathryn  was  mentally  rehearsing  this  and 
thrilling  at  the  success  of  her  wonderful  intuitions,  Northrup 
was  striding  along  the  road  toward  the  inn,  his  head  bent 
forward,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He  was  feeling  rather 
the  worse  for  wear;  the  consequences  of  his  deeds  and  promises 
were  hurtling  about  him  like  tangible,  bruising  things. 

He  was  never  to  see  Mary-Clare  again !  That  had  sounded 
fine  and  noble  when  it  meant  her  freedom  from  Larry  Rivers, 
but  what  a  beastly  thing  it  seemed,  viewed  from  Mary-Clare's 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  199 

>»ide.  What  would  she  think  of  him?  After  those  hours  of 
understanding — those  hours  weighted  with  happiness  and 
delight  that  neither  of  them  dared  to  call  by  their  true  names, 
so  beautiful  and  fragile  were  they !  Those  hours  had  been  like 
bubbles  in  which  all  that  was  real  was  reflected.  They  had 
breathed  upon  them,  watched  them,  but  had  not  touched 
them  frankly.  And  now 

How  ugly  and  ordinary  it  would  all  seem  if  he  left  without 
one  last  word! 

The  past  few  weeks  might  become  a  memory  that  would 
enrich  and  ennoble  all  the  years  on  ahead  or  they  might, 
through  wrong  interpretation,  embitter  and  corrode. 

Northrup  was  prepared  to  make  any  sacrifice  for  Mary- 
Clare;  he  had  achieved  that  much,  but  he  chafed  at  the  in- 
justice to  his  best  motives  if  he  carried  out,  literally,  what  he 
had  promised.  He  was  face  to  face  with  one  of  those  critical 
crises  where  simple  right  seemed  inadequate  to  deal  with 
complex  wrong. 

To  leave  Mary-Clare  free  to  live  whatever  life  held  for 
her,  without  bitterness  or  regret,  was  all  he  asked.  As  for 
himself,  Northrup  had  agreed  to  go  back — he  thought,  as  he 
plunged  along,  in  Manly's  terms — to  his  slit  in  the  wall  and 
keep  valiantly  to  it  in  the  future.  But  he,  no  matter  what 
occurred,  would  always  have  a  wider,  purer  vision;  while 

Mary-Clare,  the  one  who  had  made  this  possible,  would ' 

Oh!  it  was  an  unbearable  thought. 

And  just  then  a  rustling  in  the  bushes  by  the  road  brought 
him  to  a  standstill. 

"Who's  that?"  he  asked  roughly. 

Jan-an  came  from  behind  a  clump  of  sumach.  A  black 
shawl  over  her  head  and  falling  to  her  feet  made  her  seem 
part  of  the  darkness.  Northrup  turned  his  flashlight  upon 
her  and  only  her  vague  white  face  was  visible. 

"What's  up?"  he  asked,  as  Jan-an  came  nearer.  The  girl 
no  longer  repelled  him — he  had  seen  behind  her  mask,  had 
known  her  faithfulness  and  devotion  to  them  he  must  leave 
forever.  Northrup  was  still  young  enough  to  believe  in  that 
word — forever. 


200  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Jan-an  came  close. 

"Say,  there's  a  queer  lot  to  the  inn.     They're  after  you!" 

Northrup  started. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"A  toot  cart  with  an  image  setting  up  the  front — and  a 
dressy  piece  in  the  glass  cage  behind." 

So  vivid  was  the  picture  that  Jan-an  portrayed  that  North- 
rup did  not  need  to  question. 

"Lord!  but  she  was  togged  out,"  Jan-an  went  on,  "but 
seemed  like  I  felt  she  had  black  wings  hid  underneath." 
Poor  Jan-an's  flights  of  fancy  always  left  her  muddled.  "If 
you  want  that  I  should  tell  her  anything  while  you  light 
out " 

Northrup  laughed. 

"There,  there,  Jan-an,"  he  comforted.  "Why,  this  is 
all  right.  You  wanted  me  to  know,  in  case — oh !  but  you're  a 
good  sort !  But  see  here,  everything  is  safe  and  sound  and  " — 
Northrup  paused,  then  suddenly — "to-morrow,  Jan-an,  I 
want  you  to  go  to — to  Mary-Clare  and  tell  her  I  left — good- 
bye for  her  and  Noreen." 

"Yer — yer  going  away?"  Jan-an  writhed  under  the  flash- 
light. 

"Yes,  Jan-an." 

"Why "  The  girl  burst  into  tears.  Northrup  tried 

to  comfort  her.  "I've  been  so  stirred,"  the  girl  sobbed. 
"Ihadfeelin's " 

"So  have  I,  Jan-an.     So  have  I." 

They  stood  in  the  dark  for  a  moment  and  then,  because 
there  was  nothing  more  to  say — Northrup  went  to  meet 
Kathryn  Morris. 

He  went  in  at  one  of  the  end  doors,  not  the  middle  one, 
and  so  disturbed  Kathryn's  stage  setting.  He  opened  and 
closed  the  door  so  quietly,  walked  over  to  the  fire  so  rapidly, 
that  to  rise  and  carry  out  her  programme  was  out  of  the 
question,  so  Kathryn  remained  on  the  hearth  and  Northrup 
dropped  into  the  chair  beside  her. 

"Well,  little  girl,"  he  said — people  always  lowered  their 
voices  when  speaking  to  Kathryn — "what  is  it?" 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  201 

Northrup  was  braced  for  bad  news.  Of  course  Manly  had 
given  his  address  to  Kathryn — it  was  something  beyond  the 
realm  of  letters  and  telegrams  that  had  occurred;  Kathryn 
had  been  sent!  That  Manly  was  not  prime  mover  in  this 
matter  could  not  occur  to  Northrup. 

"Is  it  Mother?"  he  whispered. 

Kathryn  nodded  and  her  easy  tears  fell. 

"Dead?"  The  word  cut  like  a  knife  and  Kathryn  shiv- 
ered. For  the  first  she  doubted  herself;  felt  like  a  bungler. 

"Oh!  no,  Brace;  Brace,  do  not  look  like  that — really — 
really — listen  to  me." 

Northrup  breathed  heavily. 

"An  accident?"  he  demanded.  A  hard  note  rang  in  his 
words.  This  turn  of  affairs  was  rather  more  than  Kathryn 
had  arranged  for.  It  was  like  finding  herself  on  the  profes- 
sional stage  when  she  had  bargained  for  an  amateur  perform- 
ance. 

She  ran  to  cover,  abandoning  all  her  well-laid  plans.  She 
knew  the  advantage  of  being  the  first  in  a  new  situation,  so 
she  hurried  there. 

"Brace dear,  I — you  know  I  have  been  bearing  it  all  alone 
and  I  dared  not  take  any  further  responsibility  even  to — to 
shield  you,  dearest,  and  your  work." 

By  some  dark  magic  Northrup  felt  himself  a  selfish  brute; 
a  deserter  of  duty. 

"Kathryn,"  he  said,  and  his  eyes  fell,  "please  tell  me.  I 
suppose  I  have  been  unforgivable,  but — well,  there's  nothing 
to  say!"  Northrup  bowed  his  head  to  take  whatever  blow 
might  fall. 

"  I  may  be  all  wrong,  dear.  You  know,  when  one  is  alone, 
is  the  confidante  of  another,  one  as  precious  as  your  mother  is 
to  you  and  me,  it  unnerves  one — I  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
It  may  not  be  anything — but  how  could  I  know?" 

"You  went  to  Manly?"  Northrup  asked  this  with  a  sense 
of  relief  while  at  the  same  time  Kathryn  had  risen  to  a  plane 
so  high  that  he  felt  humbled  before  her.  He  was  still  dazed 
and  in  the  dark,  but  all  was  not  lost! 

While  he  had  been  following  his  selfish  ends,  Kathryn  had 


202  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

stood  guard  over  all  that  was  sacred  to  him.  He  had  never 
before  realized  the  strength  and  purpose  of  the  pretty  child 
near  him.  He  reached  out  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  bowed 
head. 

"No,  dear,  that  was  it.  Your  mother  would  not  let  me — 
she  thought  only  of  you;  you  must  not  be  worried,  just  now — 
oh!  you  know  how  she  is!  But,  dearest,  she  has  had,  for 
years,  a  strange  and  dreadful  pain.  It  does  not  come  often, 
but  when  it  does,  it  is  very,  very  bad — it  comes  mostly  at 
night — so  she  has  been  able  to  hide  it  from  you;  the  day  fol- 
lowing she  always  spoke  of  it  as  a  headache — you  know  how 
we  have  sympathized  with  her — but  never  were  alarmed  ?" 

Northrup  nodded.     He  recalled  those  headaches. 

"Well,  a  week  ago  she  called  me  to  come  to  her — she 
really  looked  quite  terrible,  Brace.  I  was  so  frightened,  but 
of  course  I  had  to  hide  my  feelings.  She  says — oh!  Brace, 
she  says  there  is — way  back  in  the  family " 

"Nonsense!"  Northrup  got  up  and  paced  the  floor. 
"Manly  has  told  me  that  was  sheer  nonsense.  Go  on, 
Kathryn." 

"Well,  dear,  she  was  weak  and  so  pitiful  and  she — she 
confided  things  to  me  that  I  am  sure  she  would  not  have, 
had  she  been  her  brave,  dear  self." 

"What  kind  of  things?" 

It  was  horrible,  but  Northrup  was  conscious  of  being  in  a 
net  where  the  meshes  were  wide  enough  to  permit  of  his 
seeing  freedom  but  utterly  cutting  him  off  from  it. 

What  he  had  subconsciously  hoped  the  night  before,  what 
his  underlying  strength  had  been  founded  upon,  he  would 
never  be  able  to  know,  for  now  he  felt  every  line  of  escape 
from,  heaven  knew  what,  closing  upon  him;  permitting  no 
choice,  wiping  out  all  the  security  of  happiness;  leaving — 
chaff.  For  a  moment,  he  forgot  the  question  he  had  just 
asked,  but  Kathryn  was  struggling  to  answer  it. 

"About  you  and  me,  Brace.  Oh!  help  me.  It  is  so  hard; 
so  hard,  dear,  to  tell  you,  but  you  must  realize  that  because 
of  the  things  she  said,  I  estimated  the  seriousness  of  her  con- 
dition and  I  cannot  spare  myself!  Brace,  she  knows  that 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  203 

you  and  I — have  been  putting  off  our  marriage  because  of 
her!" 

There  was  one  mad  moment  when  Northrup  felt  he  was 
going  to  laugh;  but  instantly  the  desire  fled  and  ended  in 
something  approaching  a  groan. 

"Go  on!"  he  said  quietly,  ?nd  resumed  his  seat  by  the 
fire. 

"I  think  we  have  been  careless  rather  than  thoughtful, 
dear.  Older  people  can  be  hurt  by  such  kindness — if  they 
are  wonderful  and  proud  like  your  mother.  She  cannot 
bear  to — to  be  an  obstacle." 

"An  obstacle?  Good  Lord!"  Northrup  jammed  a  log  to 
its  place  and  so  relieved  his  feelings. 

"  Well,  my  dearest,  you  must  see  the  position  I  was  placed 
in?" 

"Yes,  Kathryn,  I  do.  You're  a  brick,  my  dear,  but — 
how  did  you  know  where  I  was,  if  you  did  not  go  to  Manly?" 

Kathryn  looked  up,  and  all  the  childlike  confidence  and 
sweetness  she  could  summon  lay  in  her  lovely  eyes. 

"Dearest,  I  remembered  the  address  on  the  letter  you  sent 
to  your  mother.  Because  I  wanted  to  keep  this  secret  about 
our  fear  from  her — I  came  alone  and  I  knew  that  people  here 
could  direct  me  if  you  had  gone  away.  I  was  prepared  to 
follow  you — anywhere!" — Kathryn  suddenly  recalled  her 
small  hand-bag  upstairs — "Brace,  I  was  frightened,  bearing 
it  alone.  I  had  to  have  you.  Oh!  Brace." 

Northrup  found  the  girl  in  his  arms.  His  face  was  against 
hers — her  tears  were  falling  and  she  was  sobbing  helplessly. 
The  net,  it  was  a  purse  net  now,  drew  close. 

"Brace,  Brace,  we  must  make  her  happy,  together.  I  wrill 
share  everything  with  you — I  have  been  so  heedless;  so 
selfish — but  my  life  is  now  yours  and — hers!" 

Guilt  filled  the  aroused  soul  of  Northrup.  As  far  as  in 
him  lay  he — surrendered!  With  characteristic  swiftness 
and  thoroughness  he  closed  his  eyes  and  made  his  dash ! 

"Kathryn,  you  mean  you  will  marry  me;  you  will — do 
this  for  me  and  her?" 

"Yes." 


204  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Just  then  Aunt  Polly  came  into  the  room.  Her  quick, 
keen  eye  took  in  the  scene  and  her  gentle  heart  throbbed  in 
sympathy.  She  came  over  to  the  two  and  hovered  near 
them,  patting  Northrup's  shoulder  and  Kathryn's  head  in- 
discriminately. She  crooned  over  them  and  finally  got  them 
to  the  dining-room  and  the  evening  meal. 

An  early  start  for  the  morrow  was  planned,  and  by  nine 
o'clock  Kathryn  went  to  her  room. 

Northrup  was  restless  and  nervous.  There  was  much  to 
be  done  before  he  left.  He  must  see  Rivers  and  finish  that 
business — it  might  have  to  be  hurried,  but  he  felt  confident 
that  by  raising  Larry's  price  he  could  secure  his  ends.  And 
then,  because  of  the  finality  in  the  turn  of  events,  Northrup 
desperately  decided  upon  a  compromise  with  his  conscience. 
Strange  as  it  now  seemed  he  had,  before  his  talk  with  Kath- 
ryn, believed  that  he  was  done  forever  with  his  experience, 
but  he  realized,  as  he  reconsidered  the  matter,  that  hope,  a 
strange,  blind  hope,  had  fluttered  earlier  but  that  now  it 
was  dead;  dead! 

Since  that  was  the  case,  he  would  do  for  a  dead  man — 
Northrup  gruesomely  termed  himself  that — what  the  dead 
man  could  not  do  for  himself.  Surely  no  one,  not  even 
Rivers,  would  deny  him  that  poor  comfort,  if  all  were  known. 
He  would  write  a  note  to  Mary-Clare,  go  early  in  the  morn- 
ing to  that  cabin  on  the  hill  and  leave  it — where  her  eye 
would  fall  upon  it  when  she  entered. 

That  the  cabin  was  sacred  to  Mary-Clare  he  very  well 
knew;  that  she  shared  it  with  no  one,  he  also  knew;  but  she 
would  forgive  his  trespassing,  since  it  was  his  only  way  in 
honour  out — out  of  her  life. 

Very  well,  then!  At  nine-thirty  he  decided  to  go  over  to 
the  Point  again  anJ,  if  he  found  Larry,  finish  that  business. 
If  Larry  were  not  there,  he  would  lie  in  wait  for  him  and  gain 
his  ends.  So  he  prepared  for  another  night  away  from  the 
inn,  if  necessary. 

Aunt  Polly,  hovering  on  the  outskirts  of  all  that  was  going 
on,  materialized,  as  he  was  about  leaving  the  house  like  a 
thief  of  the  night. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  205 

"Now,  son,  must  you  go  out?"  she  pleaded,  her  spectacles 
awry  on  the  top  of  her  head,  her  eyes  unnaturally  bright. 

"Yes,  Aunt  Polly."  Northrup  paused,  the  knob  of  the 
door  in  hand,  and  looked  down  at  the  little  creature. 

"Is  it  fair,  son?"  Aunt  Polly  was  savagely  thinking  of  the 
gossip  of  the  Forest — she  wildly  believed  that  Northrup  might 
be  going  to  the  yellow  house.  The  hurry  of  departure  might 
blind  him  to  folly. 

"Fair — fair  to  whom,  Aunt  Polly?"  Northrup's  brows 
drew  together. 

"To  yourself,  son.  Bad  news  and  the  sudden  going 

away "  the  old  voice  choked.  It  was  hard  to  use  an 

enemy's  weapon  against  one's  own,  even  to  save  him. 

"Aunt  Polly,  look  at  me."     This  was  spoken  sternly. 

"I  am  looking,  son,  I  am  looking."     And  so  she  was. 

"  I'm  going  out,  because  I  must,  if  I  am  to  do  my  duty  by 
others.  You  must  trust  me.  And  I  want  you  to  know  that 
all  my  future  life  will  be  the  stronger,  the  safer,  because  of 
my  weeks  here  with  you  all!  I  came  to  you  with  no  purpose 
—just  a  tired,  half-sick  man,  but  things  were  taken  out  of  my 
hands.  I've  been  used,  and  I  don't  know  myself  just  yet 
for  what.  I'm  going  to  have  faith  and  you  must  have  it — 
I'm  with  you,  not  against  you.  Will  you  kiss  me,  Aunt 
Polly?" 

From  his  height  Northrup  bent  to  Polly's  littleness,  but 
she  reached  up  to  him  with  her  frail  tender  arms  and  seemed 
to  gather  him  into  her  denied  motherhood.  Without  a  word 
she  kissed  him  and — let  him  go! 

Northrup  found  Rivers  in  his  shack.  He  looked  as  if  he 
had  been  sitting  where  Northrup  left  him  the  night  before. 
He  was  unkempt  and  haggard  and  there  were  broken  bits  of 
food  on  the  untidy  table,  and  stains  of  coffee. 

"I'm  going  away,  Rivers,"  Northrup  explained,  sitting 
opposite  Larry.  "I  couldn't  wait  to  get  word  from  you — 
my  mother  is  ill.  I  must  put  this  business  through  in  a 
sloppy  way.  It  may  need  a  lot  of  legal  patching  after,  but 
I'll  take  my  chances.  Heathcote  has  straightened  out  your 
wife's  part — the  Point  is  yours.  I've  made  sure  of  that. 


206  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Now  I'm  going  to  write  out  something  that  I  think  will  hold — 
anyway,  I  want  your  signature  to  it  and  to  a  receipt  for 
money  I  will  give  you.  What  we  both  know  will  after  all 
be  the  real  deed,  for  if  you  don't  keep  your  bargain,  I'll  come 
back." 

Larry  stared  dully,  insolently  at  Northrup  but  did  not 
speak.  He  watched  Northrup  writing  at  the  table  where  the 
food  lay  scattered.  Then,  when  the  clumsy  document  was 
finished,  Northrup  pushed  it  toward  Rivers. 

"Sign  there!  "he  said. 

"I'll  sign  where  I  damn  please."  Larry  showed  his  teeth. 
"  How  much  you  going  to  give  me  for  my  woman  ?" 

For  a  moment  the  sordid  room  seemed  to  be  swirling  in  a 
flood  of  red  and  yellow.  Northrup  got  on  his  feet. 

"I  don't  want  to  kill  you,"  he  muttered,  "but  you  de- 
serve it." 

"Ah,  have  it  your  own  way,"  Larry  cringed.  The  memory 
of  the  night  before  steadied  him.  He'd  been  drinking  heavily 
and  was  stronger — and  weaker,  in  consequence. 

"  How  much  is — is  the  price  for  the  Point  ? "  he  mumbled. 

Northrup  mastered  his  rage  and  sat  down.  Feeling  sure 
that  Rivers  would  dicker  he  said  quietly: 

"A  thousand  dollars." 

"Double  that!"  Rivers's  eyes  gleamed.  A  thousand 
dollars  would  take  him  out  of  Maclin's  reach,  but  all  that  he 
could  get  beyond  would  keep  him  there  longer. 

"Rivers,  I  expected  this,  so  I'll  name  my  final  price. 
Fifteen  hundred!  Hurry  up  and  sign  that  paper." 

Larry  signed  it  unsteadily  but  clearly. 

"Have  you  seen  your  wife,  Rivers?"  Northrup  passed  a 
cheque  across  the  table. 

"I'm  going  to  see  her  to-morrow — I  have  up  to  Friday, 
you  know." 

"Yes,  that's  true.  I  must  go  to-morrow  morning,  but  I'll 
make  sure  you  keep  to  your  bargain." 

"And — you?"  Rivers's  lips  curled. 

"I  have  kept  my  bargain." 

"And  you'll  get  away  without  talking  to  my  wife?" 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  207 

Northrup's  eyes  grew  dark. 

"Yes.  But,  Rivers,  if  I  find  that  you  play  loose  in  any 
way,  by  God,  I'll  settle  with  you  if  I  have  to  scour  the  earth 
for  you.  Remember,  she  is  to  know  everything — every- 
thing, and  after  that — you're  to  get  out — quick." 

"I'll  get  out  all  right." 

"I  hope,  just  because  of  your  wife  and  child,  Rivers,  that 
you'll  straighten  up;  that  something  will  get  a  grip  on  you 
that  will  pull  you  up — not  down  further.  No  man  has  a 
right  to  put  the  burden  of  his  right  living  or  his  going  to  hell 
on  a  woman's  conscience,  but  women  like  your  wife  often 
have  to  carry  that  load.  You've  got  that  in  you  which, 
put  to  good  purpose,  might " 

"Oh!  cut  it  out."  Rivers  could  bear  no  more.  "I'm  go- 
ing to  get  out  of  your  way — what  more  in  hell  do  you  want?" 

"Nothing."  Northrup  rose,  white-lipped  and  stern. 
"Nothing.  We  are  both  of  us,  Rivers,  paying  a  big  price 
for  a  woman's  freedom.  It's  only  just — we  ought  not  to  want 
anything  more." 

With  that  Northrup  left  the  shack  and  retraced  his  lonely 
way  to  the  inn. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

NORTHRUP  arose  the  next  morning  before  daylight  and 
tried  to  write  a  note  to  Mary-Clare.  It  was  the  most 
difficult  thing  he  had  ever  undertaken.  If  he  could 
speak,  it  would  be  different,  but  the  written  word  is  so  rigid. 

This  last  meeting  had  been  so  distraught,  they  had  beaten 
about  so  in  the  dark,  that  his  uncertainty  as  to  what  really 
was  arrived  at  confused  him. 

Could  he  hope  for  her  understanding  if  without  another  word 
he  left  her  to  draw  her  own  conclusions  from  his  future  life? 

She  would  be  alone.  She  could  confide  in  no  one.  She 
might,  in  the  years  ahead,  ascribe  his  actions  to  the  lowest 
motives,  and  he  had,  God  knew,  meant  her  no  harm. 

Then,  as  it  was  always  to  be  in  the  time  on  ahead,  Mary- 
Clare  herself  seemed  to  speak  to  him. 

"It  is  what  one  does  to  love  that  matters."  That  was 
it — "What  one  does." 

With  this  fixed  in  his  mind  Northrup  wrote: 

I  want  you  to  know  that  I  love  you.  I  believe  you  love  me. 
We  couldn't  help  this — but  you  have  taught  me  how  not  to  kill  it- 

There  are  big,  compelling  things  in  your  life  and  mine  that  cannot 
be  ignored — you  showed  me  that,  too.  I  do  not  know  how  I  am  to 
go  on  with  my  old  life — but  I  am  going  to  try  to  live  it — as  you  will 
live  yours. 

There  was  a  mad  moment  on  the  hill  that  last  day  we  met — you 
saved  it. 

There  is  a  greater  thing  than  love — it  is  truth,  and  that  is  why 
I  must  bid  you  good-bye — in  this  way. 

Crude  and  jagged  as  the  thought  was,  Northrup,  in  re- 
reading his  words,  did  not  now  shrink  from  Mary-Clare's 
interpretation.  She  would  understand. 

After  an  early  breakfast,  at  which  Kathryn  did  not  appear 

208 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  209 

— Aunt  Polly  had  carried  Kathryn's  to  her  room — Northrup 
went  out  to  see  that  everything  was  ready  for  the  journey 
home.  To  his  grim  delight — it  seemed  almost  a  postponed 
sentence — he  discovered  the  chauffeur  under  the  car  and  in  a 
state  of  calm  excitement.  In  broken  but  carefully  selected 
English  the  man  informed  Northrup  that  he  could  repair 
what  needed  repair  but  must  have  two  hours  or  more  in 
which  to  do  it. 

With  his  anxiety  about  his  mother  lessened,  Northrup  re- 
ceived this  news  with  a  sense  of  relief.  Once  the  car  was  in 
commission  they  could  make  good  the  loss  of  time.  So 
Northrup  started  upon  his  errand,  taking  the  roundabout 
trail  he  had  broken  for  himself,  and  which  led  to  that  point 
back  of  the  cabin  from  which  he  had  often  held  his  lonely 
but  happy  vigils. 

Over  this  trail,  leaf-strewn  and  wet,  Northrup  now  went. 
He  did  not  pause  at  the  mossy  rock  that  had  hitherto  marked 
his  limit.  He  sternly  strode  ahead  over  unbroken  under- 
brush and  reached  the  cabin. 

The  door  was  open;  without  hesitation  he  went  in,  laid 
his  note  on  the  table,  put  the  Bible  over  it,  and  retraced  his 
steps.  But  once  at  the  clump  of  laurel  a  weak,  human 
longing  overcame  him.  Why  not  wait  there  and  see  what 
happened  ?  There  was  an  hour  or  more  to  while  away  before 
the  car  would  be  in  readiness.  Again  Northrup  had  that 
sense  of  being,  after  all,  an  atom  in  a  plan  over  which  he  had 
small  control. 

So  far  he  could  go,  no  further!  After  that?  Well,  after 
that  he  would  never  weaken.  He  sat  down  on  the  rock,  held 
the  branches  aside  so  that  the  cabin  was  in  full  view  and, 
unseen  himself,  waited. 

Now  it  happened  that  others  besides  Northrup  were  astir 
that  morning.  Larry,  shaved  and  washed,  having  had  a 
good  breakfast,  provided  by  Peneluna  and  served  by  Jan-an, 
straightened  himself  and  felt  more  a  man  than  he  had  felt 
for  many  a  day.  He  gave  Jan-an  money  for  Peneluna  and 
a  dollar  for  herself.  The  girl  stared  at  the  bill  indicated  as 
hers  and  pushed  it  back. 


210  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"Take  it,  Jan-an,"  Larry  urged.  "I'd  like  to  remember 
you  taking  it." 

The  girl,  thus  urged,  hid  the  money  in  her  bosom  and 
shuffled  out. 

Larry  was  sober  and  keen.  He  was  going  to  carry  out 
Northrup's  commands,  but  in  his  own  way!  He  meant  to 
lay  a  good  deal  more  in  waste  than  perhaps  any  one  would 
suspect.  And  yet,  Larry,  sober  and  about  to  cut  loose  from 
all  familiar  things,  had  sensations  that  made  him  tremble 
as  he  stumbled  over  the  debris  of  the  Point. 

Never  before  had  he  been  so  surely  leaving  everything  as 
he  was  now.  In  the  old  days  of  separation,  there  had  always 
been  home  in  the  background.  During  that  hideous  year 
when  he  was  shut  behind  bars,  his  thoughts  had  clung  to 
home,  to  his  father!  He  had  meant  then  to  go  back  and 
reform!  Poor  Larry!  he  had  nothing  to  reform,  but  he  had 
not  realized  that.  Then  Maclin  caught  him  and  instead  of 
being  reformed,  Larry  was  moulded  into  a  new  shape — 
Maclin's  tool.  Well,  Maclin  was  done  with,  too!  Larry 
strode  on  in  the  semi-darkness.  The  morning  was  dull  and 
deadly  chill. 

Traditional  prejudice  rose  in  Rivers  and  made  him  hard 
and  bitter.  He  felt  himself  a  victim  of  others'  misunder- 
standing. 

If  he  had  had  a — mother!  Never  before  had  this  emotion 
swayed  him.  He  knew  little  or  nothing  of  his  mother. 
She  had  been  blotted  out.  But  he  now  tried  to  think  that 
all  this  could  never  have  happened  to  him  had  he  not  been 
deprived  of  her.  In  the  cold,  damp  morning  Larry  reverted 
to  his  mother  over  and  over  again.  Good  or  bad,  she  would 
have  stood  by  him!  There  was  no  one  now;  no  one. 

"And  Mary-Clare!"  At  this  his  face  set  cruelly.  "She 
should  have  stood  by  me.  What  was  her  sense  of  duty, 
anyway?" 

She  had  always  eluded  him,  had  never  been  his.  Larry 
rebelled  at  this  knowledge.  She  had  been  cold  and  demand- 
ing, selfish  and  hard.  No  woman  has  a  right  to  keep  herself 
from  her  husband.  All  would  have  been  well  if  she  had  done 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  211 

her  part.  And  Noreen  was  his  as  well  as  Mary-Clare's. 
But  she  was  keeping  everything.  His  father's  house;  the 
child;  the  money! 

By  this  time  Larry  had  lashed  himself  into  a  virtuous  fury. 
He  felt  himself  wronged  and  sinned  against.  He  was  pre- 
pared to  hurt  somebody  in  revenge. 

Larry  went  to  the  yellow  house.  It  was  empty.  There 
was  a  fire  on  the  hearth  and  a  general  air  of  recent  occupancy 
and  a  hurried  departure.  A  fiendish  inspiration  came  to 
Rivers.  He  would  go  to  that  cabin  of  Mary-Clare's  and  wait 
for  her.  She  should  get  her  freedom  there,  where  she  had 
forbidden  him  to  come.  He'd  enter  now  and  have  his  say. 

Larry  took  a  short  cut  to  the  cabin  and  by  so  doing  reached 
it  before  Mary-Clare,  who  had  taken  Noreen  to  Peneluna's — 
not  daring  to  take  her  to  the  inn. 

Larry  came  to  within  a  dozen  yards  of  the  cabin  when  he 
stopped  short  and  became  rigid.  He  was  completely  screened 
from  view,  but,  for  the  moment,  he  did  not  give  this  a 
thought.  There  was  murder  in  his  heart,  and  only  cowardice 
held  him  back. 

Northrup  was  coming  out  of  the  cabin !  Rivers  had  not 
realized  that  he  trusted  Northrup,  but  he  had,  and  he  was 
betrayed !  All  the  bitterness  of  defeat  swept  over  him  and 
\iate  and  revenge  alone  swayed  him.  Suddenly  he  grew 
calm.  Northrup  had  passed  from  sight;  the  white  mists  of 
the  morning  were  rolling  and  breaking.  He  would  wait — 
if  Mary-Clare  was  in  the  cabin,  and  Larry  believed  she  was, 
he  could  afford  to  bide  his  time.  Indeed,  it  was  the  only 
thing  to  do,  for  in  a  primitive  fashion  Rivers  decided  to  deal 
only  with  his  woman,  and  he  meant  to  have  a  free  hand.  He 
would  have  no  fight  for  what  was  not  worth  fighting  for — he 
would  solve  things  in  his  own  way  and  be  off  before  any  one 
interfered. 

And  then  he  turned  sharply.  Someone  was  advancing 
from  the  opposite  direction.  It  was  Mary-Clare.  She  came 
up  her  own  trail,  emerging  from  the  mists  like  a  shadowy 
creature  of  the  woods;  she  walked  slowly,  wearily,  up  to  the 
Place  and  went  inside  with  the  eyes  of  two  men  full  upon  her. 


212  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

i 

At  that  moment  the  sun  broke  through  the  mists;  it  flooded 
the  cabin  and  touched  warmly  the  girl  who  sank  down  beside 
the  table.  Instantly  her  glance  fell  upon  the  note  by  the 
Bible.  She  took  it  up,  read  it  once,  twice,  and — understood 
more,  far  more  than  Northrup  could  guess. 

Perhaps  a  soul  awakening  from  the  experience  of  death 
might  know  the  sensation  that  throbbed  through  the  conscious- 
ness of  Mary-Clare  at  that  moment.  The  woman  of  her 
had  been  born  in  the  cabin  the  day  before,  but  the  birth  pains 
had  exhausted  her.  She  had  not  censured  Northrup  in  her 
woman-thought;  she  had  believed  something  of  what  now 
she  knew,  and  understood.  She  raised  the  note  and  held  it 
out  on  her  open  palms — almost  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  show- 
ing it  to  some  unseen  Presence  as  proof  of  all  she  trusted. 
With  the  sheet  of  paper  still  held  lightly,  Mary-Clare  walked 
to  the  door  of  her  cabin.  She  had  no  purpose  in  mind — she 
wanted  the  air;  the  sunlight.  And  so  she  stood  in  the  full 
glow,  her  face  uplifted,  her  arms  outspread. 

Northrup  from  his  hidden  place  watched  her  for  a  moment, 
bowed  his  head,  and  turned  to  the  inn.  Larry  watched  her; 
in  a  dumb  way  he  saw  revealed  the  woman  he  had  never 
touched;  never  owned.  Well,  he  would  have  his  revenge. 

Mary-Clare  turned  back  after  her  one  exalted  moment; 
she  took  her  place  by  the  table  and  spread  again  the  note 
before  her.  She  did  not  notice  the  footsteps  outside  until 
Larry  was  on  the  threshold  and  then  she  turned,  gripping, 
intuitively,  the  sheet  of  paper  in  her  hand.  Larry  saw  the 
gesture,  saw  the  paper,  and  half  understood. 

Mary-Clare  looked  at  her  husband  distantly  but  not  un- 
kindly. She  did  not  resent  his  being  there — the  Place  was  no 
longer  hers  alone. 

"A  nice  lot  you  are!"  Rivers  blurted  this  out  and  came 
in.  He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  table  near  Mary-Clare. 
"What's  that?"  he  demanded,  his  eyes  on  the  note. 

"A  letter." 

"Full  of  directions,  I  suppose?"  Larry  smiled  an  ugly, 
keen  smile. 

"  Directions  ?    What  do  you  mean  ? " 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  213 

"I  guess  that  doesn't  matter,  does  it?"  he  asked.  "Don't 
let  us  waste  time.  See  here,  my  girl,  the  game's  up!  Now 
that  letter — I  want  that.  It  will  be  evidence  when  I  need  it. 
He's  broken  his  bargain.  I  mean  to  take  the  advantage  I've 
got." 

Mary-Clare  stared  at  Rivers  in  helpless  amazement — but 
her  fingers  closed  more  firmly  upon  the  note. 

"When  he — he  bought  you — he  promised  me  that  he'd 
never  see  you  again.  He  wanted  you  free — for  yourself. 
Free!"  Larry  flung  his  head  back  and  indulged  in  a  harsh 
laugh.  "I  got  the  Point — he  bought  the  Point  and  you! 
Paid  high  for  them,  too,  but  he'll  pay  higher  yet  before  I  get 
through  with  him." 

Mary-Clare  sat  very  quiet;  her  face  seemed  frozen  into  an 
expression  of  utter  bewilderment.  That,  and  the  memory 
of  her  as  she  had  stood  at  the  door  a  few  moments  ago,  mad- 
dened Rivers  and  he  ruthlessly  proceeded  to  batter  down  all 
the  background  that  had  stood,  in  Mary-Clare's  life,  as  a 
plea  for  her  loyalty,  faith,  and  gratitude. 

"Do  you  know  why  my  father  kept  me  from  home  and  put 
you  in  my  place?"  he  demanded. 

"No,  Larry." 

"  He  was  afraid  of  me — afraid  of  himself.  He  left  me  to 
others — and  others  helped  me  along.  Others  like  Maclin 
who  saw  my  ability!"  Again  Larry  gave  his  mirthless,  ugly 
laugh  and  this  time  Mary-Clare  shuddered. 

She  made  no  defence  for  her  beloved  doctor — the  father  of 
the  man  before  her.  She  simply  braced  herself  to  bear  the 
blows,  and  she  shuddered  because  she  intuitively  felt  that  Larry 
was  in  no  sense  realizing  his  own  position;  he  was  so  madly 
seeking  to  destroy  that  of  others. 

"I'm  a  counterfeiter — I've  been  in  prison — I've "  but 

here  Rivers  paused,  struck  at  last  by  the  face  opposite  him. 
It  was  awakening;  it  flushed,  quivered,  and  the  eyes  darkened 
and  widened.  What  was  happening  was  this — Larry  was 
setting  Mary-Clare  free  in  ways  that  he  could  not  realize. 
Every  merciless  blow  he  struck  was  rending  a  fetter  apart. 
He  was  making  it  possible  for  the  woman,  close  to  him  physi- 


214  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

cally,  to  regard  him  at  last  as — a  man;  not  a  husband  that 
mistaken  loyalty  must  shield  and  suffer  for.  He  was  placing 
her  among  the  safe  and  decent  people,  permitting  her  at  last 
to  justify  her  instincts,  to  trust  her  own  ideals. 

And  from  that  vantage  ground  of  spiritual  freedom,  re- 
leased from  all  false  ties  of  contract  and  promise,  Mary-Clare 
looked  at  Larry  with  divine  pity  in  her  eyes.  She  seemed 
to  see  the  veiled  form  of  his  mother  beside  him — they  were 
like  two  outcasts  defiantly  accusing  her,  but  toward  whom 
she  could  well  afford  to  feel  merciful. 

"Don't,  Larry" — Mary-Clare  spoke  at  last  and  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes — "please  don't.  You've  said  enough." 

She  felt  as  though  she  were  looking  at  the  dying  face  of  a 
suicide. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  have  said  enough  about  myself  except 
this:  I  wrote  all  those  letters  you — you  had.  Not  one  was 
my  father's — they  were  counterfeits — there  are  more  ways 
than  one  of — of  getting  what  you  want." 

Again  Mary-Clare  shuddered  and  sank  into  the  dull  state 
of  amazement.  She  had  to  think  this  over;  go  slowly.  She 
looked  at  Larry,  but  she  was  not  listening.  At  last  she  asked 
wonderingly: 

"You  mean — that  he  did  not  want  me  to  marry  you? 
And  that  last  night — he  did  not  say — what  you  said  you 
understood?" 

Larry  laughed — but  it  was  not  the  old  assured  laugh  of 
brutality — he  had  stripped  himself  so  bare  that  at  last  he  was 
aware  of  his  own  nakedness. 

"Oh!"  The  one  word  was  like  a  blighting  shaft  that 
killed  all  that  was  left  to  kill. 

Larry  put  forth  a  pitiful  defence. 

"You've  been  hard  and  selfish,  Mary-Clare.  Another 
sort  might  have  helped  me — I  got  to  caring,  at  first.  You've 
taken  everything  and  given  mighty  little.  And  now,  when 
you  see  a  chance  of  cutting  loose,  you  wipe  me  off  the  map 
and  betray  me  into  the  hands  of  a  man  who  has  lied  to  me, 
made  sport  of  me,  and  thinks  he's  going  to  get  away  with  it. 
Now  listen.  I  want  that  letter.  When  I  have  used  up 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  215 

the  hush  money  I  have  now,  I'm  coming  back  for  more — 
more — and  you  and  he  are  going  to  pay." 

By  this  time  Larry  had  worked  himself  again  into  a 
blind  fury.  He  felt  this  but  could  not  control  it.  He  had 
lost  nearly  everything — he  must  clutch  what  was  left. 

"Give  that  to  me!"  he  commanded,  and  reached  for  the 
clenched  hand  on  the  table. 

"No,  Larry.  If  you  could  understand,  I  would  let  you 
have  it,  but  you  couldn't!  Nothing  matters  now  between 
you  and  me.  I  am  free,  free!" 

The  radiant  face,  the  clenched  hand,  blinded  Larry. 
Sitting  again  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  looking  down  at  the 
woman  who  had  eluded  him,  was  defying  him,  he  struck  out! 
He  had  no  thought  at  all  for  the  moment — something  was 
in  his  way;  before  he  could  escape  he  must  fling  it  aside. 

Mary-Clare  drooped;  dropped  from  her  chair  and  lay  quiet 
upon  the  floor.  Her  hand,  holding  the  paper,  was  spread 
wide,  the  note  was  unprotected. 

For  a  moment  Larry  gazed  at  his  work  with  horrified 
;yes.  Never  before  had  he  meted  physical  brutality  to  man 
jr  woman.  He  was  a  coward  at  heart,  and  he  was  thor- 
oughly cowed  as  he  stood  above  the  girl  at  his  feet.  He 
saw  that  she  was  breathing;  there  was  almost  at  once  a 
fluttering  of  the  lids.  There  were  two  things  for  a  coward 
«:o  do — seize  the  note  and  make  his  escape. 

Larry  did  both  and  Mary-Clare  took  no  heed. 

A  little  red  squirrel  came  into  the  sunny  room  and  darted 
about;  the  sunlight  grew  dim,  for  there  was  a  storm  rising, 
and  the  clouds  were  heavy  on  its  wings. 

And  while  the  deathly  silence  reigned  in  the  cabin,  North- 
rup  and  Kathryn  were  riding  rapidly  from  the  inn.  As  the 
car  passed  the  yellow  house,  Kathryn  pathetically  drew  down 
the  shades — her  eyes  were  tear-filled. 

"Brace,  dear,"  she  whispered,  "I'm  so  afraid.  The 
storm;  everything  frightens  me.  Take  me  in  your  arms." 

And  at  that  moment  Kathryn  believed  that  she  loved 
Northrup,  had  saved  him  from  a  great  peril,  and  she  was 
prepared  to  act  the  part,  in  the  future,  of  a  faithful  wife. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

NOREEN  and  Jan-an  late  that  afternoon  returned  to 
the  yellow  house.  They  were  both  rather  depressed 
and  forlorn,  for  they  knew  that  Northrup  was  gone 
and  had  taken  away  with  him  much  that  had  stimulated 
and  cheered. 

Finding  the  yellow  house  empty,  the  two  went  up  the 
opposite  hill  and  leisurely  made  their  way  to  the  brook  that 
marked  the  limit  of  free  choice.  Here  they  sat  down,  and 
Noreen  suggested  that  they  sing  Northrup's  old  songs  and 
play  some  of  his  diverting  games.  Jan-an  solemnly  agreed, 
shaking  her  head  and  sighing  as  one  does  who  recalls  the 
dead. 

So  Noreen  piped  out  the  well-beloved  words  of  "Green 
Jacket"  and,  rather  heavily,  acted  the  jovial  part.  But 
Jan-an  refused  to  be  comforted.  She  cried  distractedly,  and 
always  when  Jan-an  wept  she  made  such  abnormal  "faces" 
that  she  disturbed  any  onlookers. 

"All  right!"  Noreen  said  at  last.  "We'll  both  do  some- 
thing." 

This  clever  psychological  ruse  brought  Jan-an  to  her  nor- 
mal state. 

"Let's  play  Eve's  Other  Children,"  Noreen  ran  on.  "I'll 
be  Eve  and  hide  my  children,  the  ones  I  don't  like  specially. 
You  be  God,  Jan-an." 

This  was  a  great  concession  on  Noreen's  part,  for  she  rev- 
elled in  the  leading  role,  as  it  gave  full  play  to  her  dramatic 
sense  of  justice. 

However,  the  play  began  with  Noreen  hiding  some  twisted 
and  dry  sticks  under  stones  and  in  holes  in  trees  and  then 
proceeding  to  dress,  in  gay  autumn  leaves,  more  favoured 
twigs.  She  crooned  over  them;  expatiated  upon  their  love- 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  217 

liness,  and,  at  a  given  signal,  poor  Jan-an  clumsily  appeared 
and  in  most  unflattering  terms  accused  Noreen  of  depravity 
and  unfaithfulness,  demanding  finally,  in  most  picturesque 
and  primitive  language,  the  hidden  children.  At  this  point 
Noreen  rose  to  great  heights.  Fear,  remorse,  and  shame 
overcame  her.  She  pleaded  and  denied;  she  confessed  and  at 
last  began,  with  the  help  of  her  accuser,  to  search  out  the 
neglected  offspring.  So  wholly  did  the  two  enjoy  this  part 
of  the  game  that  they  forgot  their  animosity,  and  when  the 
crooked  twigs  were  discovered  Jan-an  became  emphatically 
allegorical  with  Noreen  and  ruthlessly  destroyed  the  "other 
children  "  on  the  score  that  they  weren't  worth  keeping. 

But  the  interest  flagged  at  length,  and  both  Jan-an  and 
Noreen  became  silent  and  depressed. 

"I've  got  feelin's!"  Jan-an  remarked,  "in  the  pit  of  my 
stomach.  Besides,  it's  getting  cold  and  a  storm's  brewing. 
Did  yer  hear  thunder?" 

Noreen  was  replacing  her  favoured  children  in  the  crannies 
of  the  rocks,  but  she  turned  now  to  Jan-an  and  said  wistfully: 

"I  want  Motherly." 

"She's  biding  terrible  long  up  yonder." 

"  P'raps,  oh !  Jan-an,  p'raps  that  lady  you  were  telling  about 
has  taken  Motherly!" 

Noreen  became  agitated,  but  Jan-an  with  blind  intuition 
scoffed. 

"No;  whatever  she  took,  she  wouldn't  take  her!  But  she 
took  Mr.  Northrup,  all  right.  Her  kind  takes  just  fierce!  I 
sense  her." 

Noreen  looked  blank. 

"Tell  me  about  the  heathen,  Jan-an,"  she  said.  "What 
did  he  eat  when  Uncle  Peter  wouldn't  let  him  have  Ginger?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  did  miss  two  rabbits." 

"Live  ones,  Jan-an?"  Noreen's  eyes  widened. 

"Sure,  live  ones.  Everything's  live  till  it's  killed.  I 
ain't  saying  he  et  'em  'live." 

"Maybe  the  rabbits  got  away,"  Noreen  suggested  hope- 
fully. 

"The   Lord   knows!    Maybe   they   did."    Then   Jan-an 


218  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

added  further  information:     "I  guess  your  father  has  gone 
for  good!" 

"Took?"  Noreen  was  not  now  overcome  by  grief. 

"No,  just  gone.     He  gave  me  a  dollar." 

"A  dollar,  Jan-an?  A  whole  dollar?"  This  was  almost 
unbelievable.  Jan-an  produced  the  evidence  from  her  loose 
and  soiled  blouse. 

"He  left  his  place  terribly  tidy,  too,"  she  ran  on,  "and 
when  a  man  does  that  Peneluna  says  it's  awful  suspicious." 

"Jan-an,  you  wait  here — I'm  going  up  to  the  cabin!" 

Noreen  stood  up  defiantly.  She  was  possessed  by  one  of 
her  sudden  flashes  of  inspiration. 

"Yer  ain't  been  called,"  warned  Jan-an. 

"I  know,  but  I  must  go.  I'll  only  peep  in.  Mayb< 
Motherly  took  a  back  way  to  the  inn." 

To  this  Jan-an  had  nothing  to  say  and  she  sat  down  upon  a 
wet  rock  to  wait,  while  Noreen  darted  up  the  trail  like  a  small, 
distracted  animal  of  the  woods. 

It  was  growing  dark  and  heavy  with  storm;  the  thunder  was 
more  distinct — there  was  a  hush  and  a  breathless  suggestion  of 
wind  held  in  check  by  a  mighty  force. 

Noreen  reached  the  shack  and  peeped  in  at  the  vine- 
covered  window.  What  she  saw  marked  a  turning-point  in 
the  child's  life. 

Mary-Clare  was  still  stretched  upon  the  floor.  Several 
things  had  happened  to  her  since  Larry  fled;  she  was  never 
clearly  to  account  for  them. 

She  had  been  conscious  and  had  drifted  into  unconscious- 
ness several  times.  She  had  tried,  she  recalled  that  later, 
to  get  to  the  couch,  but  her  aching  head  had  driven  the  im- 
pulse into  oblivion.  She  had  fallen  back  on  the  floor.  Then, 
again,  she  roused  and  there  was  blood — near  her.  Not 
much,  but  she  had  not  noticed  it  before,  and  she  must  have 
fainted.  Again,  she  could  remember  thinking  of  Noreen,  of 
the  others;  and  the  necessity  of  keeping  forever  hidden  the 
thing  that  had  happened. 

But  again  Mary-Clare,  from  exhaustion  or  faintness,  slip- 
ped into  silence,  and  so  Noreen  found  her! 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  219 

The  child  went  swiftly  into  the  still  cabin  and  knelt  be- 
side her  mother.  She  was  quite  calm,  at  first,  and  unafraid. 
She  took  the  dear  head  on  her  lap  and  patted  the  white  cheek 
where  the  little  cut  had  let  out  the  blood — there  was  dry 
blood  on  it  now  and  that  caused  Noreen  to  gasp  and  cry 
out. 

Back  and  forth  the  child  swayed,  mumbling  comforting 
words;  and  then  she  spoke  louder,  faster — her  words  became 
wild,  disconnected.  She  laughed  and  cried  and  called  for 
every  one  of  her  little  world  in  turn. 

Uncle  Peter! 

Aunt  Polly! 

Peneluna!     And  then  Jan-an!     Jan-an! 

As  she  sobbed  and  screamed  Mary-Clare's  eyes  opened 
and  she  smiled.  At  that  moment  Jan-an  came  stumbling 
into  the  room. 

One  look  and  the  dull,  faithful  creature  became  a  machine 
carrying  out  the  routine  that  she  had  often  shared  with 
others  on  the  Point. 

"She  ain't  dead!"  she  announced  after  one  terrified  glance, 
and  then  she  dragged  Mary-Clare  to  the  couch;  ran  for  watery 
took  a  towel  from  a  nail  and  bathed  the  white,  stained  face. 
During  this  Noreen's  sobs  grew  less  and  less,  she  became 
quieter  and  was  able,  presently,  to  assist  Jan-an. 

"She's  had  a  fall,"  Jan-an  announced.  Mary-Clare 
opened  her  eyes — the  words  found  an  echo  in  her  heavy 
brain. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered. 

"And  on  an  empty  stummick!"  Jan-an  had  a  sympathetic 
twinge. 

"Yes,"  again  Mary-Clare  whispered  and  smiled. 

"Noreen,  you  go  on  sopping  her  face — I'm  going  to  get 
something  hot." 

And  while  Noreen  bathed  and  soothed  the  face  upon  the 
pillow  into  consciousness  and  reason,  Jan-an  made  a  fire 
on  the  hearth,  carried  water  from  a  spring  outside,  and 
brought  forth  tea  and  some  little  cakes  from  the  cup- 
board. The  girl's  face  was  transfigured;  she  was  thinking, 


220  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

thinking,  and  it  hurt  her  to  think  consecutively — but  she 
thought  on. 

"Norrie  darling,  I  am  all  right.  Quite  all  right."  At  last 
Mary-Clare  was  able  to  assert  herself;  she  rose  unsteadily  and 
Jan-an  sprang  to  her  side. 

"Lay  down,"  she  commanded  in  a  new  and  almost  alarm- 
ing tone.  "Can't  yer  see,  yer  must  hold  on  ter  yerself  a 
spell  ?  Let  me  take  the  lead — I  know,  I  know ! " 

And  Mary-Clare  realized  that  she  did!  Keenly  the  two 
gazed  at  each  other,  Eve's  two  children!  Mary-Clare  sank 
back;  her  face  quivered;  her  eyes  filled  with  weak  tears. 

Outside  the  darkness  of  the  coming  storm  pressed  close, 
the  wind  was  straining  at  the  leash,  the  lightning  darted  and 
the  thunder  rolled. 

"The  storm,"  murmured  Mary-Clare,  "the  storm!  It  is 
the  breaking  up  of  summer!" 

The  stale  cakes  and  the  hot  tea  refreshed  the  three,  and 
after  an  hour  Mary-Clare  seemed  quite  herself.  She  went 
to  the  door  and  looked  out  into  the  heart  of  the  storm.  The 
red  lightning  ran  zigzag  through  the  blackness.  It  seemed 
like  the  glad  summer,  mad  with  fear,  seeking  a  way  through 
the  sleet  and  rain. 

Bodily  bruised  and  weary,  mentally  exhausted  and  groping, 
Mary-Clare  still  felt  that  strange  freedom  she  had  experi- 
enced while  Larry  was  devastating  all  that  she  had  believed 
in,  and  for  which  she  had  given  of  her  best. 

She  felt  as  one  must  who,  escaping  from  an  overwhelming 
flood,  looks  upon  the  destruction  and  wonders  at  her  own 
escape.  But  she  had  escaped!  That  became,  presently, 
the  one  gripping  fact.  She  had  escaped  and  she  would  find 
safety  somewhere. 

The  late  sunset  after  the  storm  was  glorious.  The  clear 
gold  that  a  mighty  storm  often  leaves  in  its  wake  was  like  a 
burnished  shield.  The  breeze  was  icy  in  its  touch;  the 
bared  trees  startled  one  by  the  sudden  change  in  their  ap- 
pearance— the  gale  had  torn  their  colour  and  foliage  from 
them.  Starkly  they  stood  forth  against  the  glowing  sky. 

And  then  Mary-Clare  led  the  way  down  the  trail — her 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  221 

baf-strewn,  hidden  trail.  She  held  Noreen's  hand  in  hers 
but  she  leaned  upon  Jan-an.  As  they  descended  Mary- 
Clare  planned. 

"When  we  get  home,  Jan-an,  home  to  the  yellow  house,  I 
want  you  to  go  for  Peneluna." 

From  all  the  world,  Mary-Clare  desired  the  old  under- 
standing woman. 

"I  guess  you  mean  Aunt  Polly,"  Jan-an  suggested. 

"No.  To-morrow,  Aunt  Polly,  Jan-an.  To-day  I  want 
Peneluna." 

"All  right."     Jan-an  nodded. 

"And,  Noreen  dear." 

"Yes,  Motherly." 

"Everything  is  all  right.  I  had  a — queer  fall.  It  was 
quite  dark  in  the  cabin — I  hit  my  face  on  the  edge  of  the 
table.  And,  Noreen." 

"Yes,  Motherly." 

"  I  may  have  to  rest  a  little,  but  you  must  not  be  worried— 
you  see,  Mother  hasn't  rested  in  a  long  while." 

Peneluna  responded  to  the  call.  It  was  late  evening  when 
she  and  Jan-an  came  to  the  yellow  house.  Before  starting 
for  the  Point  Jan-an  had  insisted  upon  getting  a  meal  and 
afterward  she  had  helped  Mary-Clare  put  Noreen  to  bed. 
All  this  had  delayed  her. 

"Now,"  she  said  at  last,  "I'll  go.  I  guess  you're  edging  to 
the  limit,  ain't  yer?" 

Mary-Clare  nodded. 

"I've  never  been  sick,  not  plain  sick,  in  all  my  life,"  she 
murmured,  "and  why  should  I  be  now?" 

But  left  alone,  she  made  ready,  in  a  strange  way,  for  what 
she  felt  was  coming  upon  her.  She  undressed  carefully  and 
put  her  room  in  order.  Then  she  lay  down  upon  her  bed 
and  drifted  lightly  between  the  known  and  the  unknown. 

She  touched  Noreen's  sleeping  face  so  gently  that  the  child 
did  not  heed  the  caress.  Then: 

"  Perhaps  I  am  going  to  die — people  die  so  easily  at  times — 
just  flare  out!" 

And  so  Peneluna  found  her  and  knelt  beside  her. 


222  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"You  hear  me,  Mary-Clare?" 

"Yes.     I  hear  you,  of  course." 

"Well,  then,  child,  take  this  along  with  you,  wherever  you 
bide  for  a  time.  I'm  here  and  God  Almighty's  here  and 
things  is  safe!  You  get  that?" 

"Yes,  Peneluna." 

"Then  listen — 'The  solitary  place  shall  be  glad — and  a 
highway  shall  be  there — and  a  way."5  The  confused  words 
fell  into  a  crooning  song. 

"Solitary  Place "  Mary-Clare  drifted  to  it,  her  eyes 

closed  wearily,  but  she  smiled  and  Peneluna  believed  that 
she  had  found  The  Way.  Whether  it  wound  back  or  out — 
well!  Peneluna  turned  to  her  task  of  nursing.  She  had  the 
gift  of  healing  and  she  had  an  understanding  heart,  and  so 
she  took  command. 

It  was  a  rough  and  difficult  Way  and  beset  with  dangers. 
A  physician  came  and  diagnosed  the  case. 

"Bad  fall — almost  concussion." 

Aunt  Polly  came  and  shared  the  nursing.  Jan-an  mechan- 
ically attended  to  the  house  while  Uncle  Peter  took  Noreen 
under  his  care. 

The  dull,  uneventful  days  dragged  on  before  Mary-Clare 
came  back  to  her  own.  One  day  she  said  to  Jan-an, 
"  I — I  want  you  to  go  to  the  cabin,  Jan-an.  I  have  given  it- 
back  to  God.  Close  the  windows  and  doors — for  winter 
has  come!" 

Jan-an  nodded.  She  believed  Mary-Clare  was  "passing 
out" — she  was  frightened  and  superstitious.  She  did  not 
pause  to  explain  to  Peneluna,  in  the  next  room,  where  she  was 
going,  but  covering  her  head  and  shoulders  with  an  old  shawl, 
she  rushed  forth. 

It  was  bitingly  cold  and  the  dry  twigs  struck  against  the 
girl's  face  like  ice.  The  ghost-wind  added  terror  to  the 
hour,  but  Jan-an  struggled  on. 

When  she  reached  the  cabin  it  was  nearly  dark — the  empty 
room  was  haunted  by  memories  and  there  were  little  scurry- 
ing creatures  darting  about.  Standing  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  Jan-an  raised  her  clenched  hands  and  extended  them 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  223 

as  if  imploring  a  Presence.  If  Mary-Clare  had  given  the 
Place  back  to  God,  then  it  might  be  that  God  was  there 
close  and — listening.  Jan-an  became  possessed  by  the  spir- 
itual. She  lifted  her  faithful,  yearning  eyes  and  spoke 
aloud. 

"God!"  She  waited.  Then:  "God,  I'm  trusting  and  I 
ain't  afraid — much!  God,  listen!  I  fling  this  to  Your  face. 
Yer  raised  Lazarus  and  others  from  the  dead  and  Mary-Clare 
ain't  dead  yet — can't  Yer — save  her?  Hear  me!  hear  me!" 

Surely  God  heard  and  made  answer,  for  that  night  Mary- 
Clare's  Way  turned  back  again  toward  the  little  yellow 
house. 

When  she  was  able,  Aunt  Polly  insisted  that  she  be  moved 
to  the  inn. 

"It  will  make  less  trouble  all  around  and  Peneluna  will 
stay  on." 

So  they  went  to  the  inn,  and  the  winter  settled  down  upon 
the  Forest  and  the  Point  and  the  mines.  The  lake  was  frozen 
and  became  a  glittering  highway;  children  skated;  sleighs 
darted  here  and  there.  The  world  was  shut  away  and  things 
sank  into  the  old  grooves. 

During  her  convalescence  Mary-Clare  had  strange  vision- 
ary moments.  She  seemed  to  be  able  at  times  to  detach 
herself  from  her  surroundings  and,  guided  by  almost  for- 
gotten words  of  Northrup's,  find  herself — with  him.  And 
always  he  was  alone.  She  never  visualized  his  mother;  she 
could,  thank  heaven,  eliminate  Kathryn. 

She  was  alone  with  Northrup  in  a  high  place.  They  did  not 
speak  or  touch  each  other — but  they  knew  and  were  glad! 
There  seemed  to  be  mists  below  them,  surrounding  them; 
mists  that  now  and  then  parted,  and  she  and  Northrup  would 
eagerly  try  to — see  things!  Mary-Clare  imagined  herself 
in  that  high  place  as  she  did  Northrup,  a  personality  quite 
outside  her  own. 

After  awhile  those  moments  took  more  definite  shape  and 
form.  She  and  Northrup  were  trying  to  see  their  city  in 
the  mists;  trying  to  create  their  city. 

This  became  a  thrilling  mental  exercise  to  Mary-Clare, 


324  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

and  in  time  she  saw  a  city.  Once  or  twice  she  almost  felt 
him  as  she,  that  girl  of  her  own  creation,  reached  out  to  the 
man  whom  she  loved;  who  loved  her,  but  who  knew,  as  she 
did,  that  love  asks  renunciation  at  times  as  well  as  acceptance 
if  one  were  to  keep — truth. 

Presently  Mary-Clare  was  able  to  walk  in  the  sunshine 
and  then  she  often  went  to  the  deserted  chapel  and  sat 
silent  for  hours. 

And  there  Maclin  found  her  one  day — a  smiling,  ingrati- 
ating Maclin.  Maclin  had  been  much  disturbed  by  Larry's 
abrupt  and,  up  to  the  present,  successful  escape.  Of  course 
Maclin's  very  one-track  mind  had  at  the  hour  of  Rivers's 
disappearance  accounted  for  things  in  a  primitive  way. 
Northrup  had  bought  Larry  off!  That  was  simple  enough 
until  Northrup  himself  disappeared. 

At  this  Maclin  was  obliged  to  do  some  original  conjectur- 
ing. There  must  have  been  a  scene — likely  enough  in  that 
wood  cabin.  Northrup's  woman  had  got  the  whip  hand 
and  Northrup  had  accepted  terms — leaving  Mary-Clare. 
That  would  account  for  the  illness. 

So  far,  so  good.  But  with  both  Larry  and  Northrup  off 
the  ground,  the  Heathcotes  would  have  to  take  responsibility. 
This  would  be  the  psychological  moment  to  buy  the  Point! 
So  Maclin,  keeping  watch,  followed  Mary-Clare  to  chapel 
island. 

"Well,  well!"  he  exclaimed  as  if  surprised  to  see  the 
girl  in  the  angle  of  the  old  church.  "  Decided  to  get  well, 
eh  ?  Taking  a  sun  bath  ? " 

Mary-Clare  gathered  her  cloak  closer,  as  if  shrinking  from 
the  smiling,  unwholesome-looking  man. 

"Yes,  I'm  getting  well  fast,"  she  said. 

"Hear  anything  from  Larry?"  It  seemed  best  to  hide 
his  own  feelings  as  to  Larry. 

"No." 

"Some  worried,  I  expect?" 

"No,  I  do  not  worry  much,  Mr.  Maclin."  Mary-Clare 
was  thinking  of  her  old  doctor's  philosophy.  She  wasn't 
going  to  die,  so  she  must  live  at  once! 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  225 

"It's  a  damned  mean  way  to  treat  a  little  woman  the  way 
you've  been  treated." 

Maclin  stepped  nearer  and  his  neck  wrinkled.  Mary- 
Clare  made  no  reply  to  this.  Maclin  was  conscious  of  the 
back  of  his  neck — it  irritated  him. 

"Left  you  strapped?"  he  asked. 

"What  is  that?"     Mary-Clare  was  interested. 

"Short  of  money." 

"Oh!  no.  My  wishes  are  very  simple — there's  money 
enough  for  them." 

"See  here,  Mrs.  Rivers,  let's  get  down  to  business.  Of 
course  you  know  I  want  the  Point.  I'll  tell  you  why.  The 
mines  are  all  right  as  mines,  but  I  have  some  inventions  over 
there  ripe  for  getting  into  final  shape.  Now,  I  haven't  told  a 
soul  about  this  before — not  even  Larry — but  I  always  hold 
that  a  woman  can  keep  her  tongue  still.  I'm  not  one  of  the 
men  who  think  different.  I  want  to  put  up  a  factory  on  the 
Point;  some  model  cottages  and — and  make  King's  Forest. 
Now  what  would  you  take  for  the  Point,  and  don't  be  too 
modest.  I  don't  grind  the  faces  of  women." 

Maclin  smiled.  The  fat  on  his  face  broke  into  lines — 
that  was  the  best  a  smile  could  do  for  him.  Mary-Clare 
looked  at  him,  fascinated. 

"Speak  up,  Mrs.  Rivers!"  This  came  like  a  poke  in  the 
ribs — Mary-Clare  recoiled  as  from  a  physical  touch. 

"I  do  not  own  the  Point  any  longer,"  she  said. 

"What  in  thunder!"  Maclin  now  recoiled.  "Who 
then?" 

"  I  gave  it  to  Larry." 

"How  the  devil  could  Larry  pay  you  for  it?" 

"Larry  gave  me  no  money." 

"Do  you  expect  me  to  believe  this,  Mrs.  Rivers?"  The 
fat  now  resumed  its  flaccid  lines. 

"It  doesn't  interest  me  in  the  least,  Mr.  Maclin,  whether 
you  do  or  not." 

Then  Mary-Clare  rose,  rather  weakly,  and  turned  toward 
the  bridge. 

And  there  stood  Maclin  alone!     Like  all  people  who  have 


226  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

much  that  they  fear  to  have  known,  Maclin  considered  now 
how  much  Larry  really  knew?  Did  he  know  what  the 
Point  meant?  Had  he  ever  opened  letters?  This  brought 
the  sweat  out  on  Maclin. 

Had  he  copied  letters  with  that  devilish  trick  of  his? 
Could  he  sell  the  Point  to — to 

Maclin  could  bear  no  longer  his  unanswered  questions. 
He  went  back  to  the  mines  and  was  not  seen  in  King's  Forest 
for  many  a  day. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ONCE  back  in  the  old  environment,  Northrup  went, 
daily,  through  the  sensations  of  his  haunting  dream, 
without  the  relief  of  awakening.  The  corridor  of 
closed  doors  was  an  actuality  to  him  now.  Behind  them  lay 
experiences,  common  enough  to  most  men,  undoubtedly, 
but,  as  yet,  unrevealed  to  him. 

In  one  he  had  dwelt  for  a  brief  time — good  Lord!  had  it  only 
been  for  weeks?  Well,  the  memory,  thank  heaven,  was 
secure;  unblemished.  He  vowed  that  he  would  reserve  to 
himself  the  privilege  of  returning,  in  thought,  to  that  mem- 
ory-haunted sanctuary  as  long  as  he  might  live,  for  he  knew, 
beyond  any  doubt,  that  it  could  not  weaken  his  resolve  to 
take  up  every  duty  that  he  had  for  a  time  abandoned.  It 
should  be  with  him  as  Manly  had  predicted. 

This  line  of  thought  widened  Northrup's  vision  and  de- 
veloped a  new  tie  between  him  and  other  men.  He  found 
himself  looking  at  them  in  the  street  with  awakened  interest. 
He  wondered  how  many  of  them,  stern,  often  hard-featured 
men,  had  realized  their  souls  in  private  or  public  life,  and 
how  had  they  dealt  with  the  revelation?  He  grew  sensitive 
as  to  expressions;  he  believed,  after  a  time,  that  he  could 
estimate,  by  the  look  in  the  eyes  of  his  fellowmen,  by  the 
set  of  their  jaws,  whether  they  had  faced  the  ordeal,  as  he  was 
trying  to  do,  or  had  denied  the  soul  acceptance.  It  was  like 
looking  at  them  through  a  magnifying  lens  where  once  he 
had  regarded  them  through  smoked  glass. 

And  the  women  ?  Well,  Northrup  was  very  humble  about 
women  in  those  days.  He  grew  restive  when  he  contemplated 
results  and  pondered  upon  the  daring  that  had  assumed  re- 
sponsibility where  complete  understanding  had  never  been 
attempted.  It  seemed,  in  his  introspective  state,  that  God, 

227 


228  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

even,  had  been  cheated.  Women  were,  he  justly  concluded, 
pretty  much  a  response  to  ideals  created  for  them,  not  by 
them. 

Mary-Clare  was  having  her  way  with  Northrup! 

Something  of  all  this  crept  into  his  book  for,  after  a  fort- 
night at  home,  he  set  his  own  jaw  and  lips  rather  grimly, 
went  to  his  small  office  room  in  the  tower  of  a  high  building, 
and  paid  the  elevator  boy  a  goodly  sum  for  acting  as  buffer 
during  five  holy  hours  of  each  day. 

It  was  like  being  above  the  world,  sitting  in  that  eyrie 
nook  of  his.  Northrup  often  recalled  a  day,  years  before, 
when  he  had  stood  on  a  mountain-peak  bathed  in  stillness  and 
sunlight,  watching  the  dramatic  play  of  the  elements  on  the 
scene  below.  Off  to  the  right  a  violent  shower  spent  itself 
mercilessly;  to  the  left,  rolling  mists  were  parting  and  re- 
vealing pleasant  meadows  and  clustering  hamlets.  And  with 
this  recollection,  Northrup  closed  his  eyes  and,  from  his  silent 
watch  tower,  saw,  as  no  earthly  thing  could  make  him  see, 
the  hideous  tragedy  across  the  seas. 

Since  his  return  his  old  unrest  claimed  him.  It  was  blot- 
ting out  all  that  he  had  believed  was  his — ideals;  the  meaning 
of  life;  love;  duty;  even  his  city — his — was  threatened. 
Nothing  any  longer  seemed  safe  unless  it  were  battled  for. 
There  was  something  he  owed — what  was  it? 

Try  as  he  valiantly  did,  Northrup  could  put  little  thought 
in  his  work — it  eluded  him.  He  began,  at  first  unconsciously, 
to  plan  for  going  away,  while,  consciously,  he  deceived  himself 
by  thinking  that  he  was  readjusting  himself  to  his  own  wid- 
ened niche  in  the  wall! 

When  Northrup  descended  from  his  tower,  he  became  as 
other  men  and  the  grim  lines  of  lips  and  jaws  relaxed.  He 
was  with  them  who  first  caught  the  wider  vision  of  brother- 
hood. 

At  once,  upon  his  return,  he  had  taken  Manly  into  his 
confidence  about  his  mother,  and  that  simple  soul  brushed 
aside  the  sentimental  rubbish  with  which  Kathryn  had 
cluttered  the  situation. 

"It's  all  damned  rot.  Brace,"  he  snapped.     "You  had  a 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  229 

grandmother  who  did  work  that  was  never  meant  for  women 
to  do — laid  a  carpet  or  tore  one  up,  I  forget  which,  I  heard 
the  story  from  my  father — and  she  developed  cancer — more 
likely  it  wasn't  cancer — I  don't  think  my  father  was  ever  sure. 
But,  good  Lord!  why  should  her  descendants  inherit  an  acci- 
dent? I  thought  I'd  talked  your  mother  out  of  that  non- 
sense." 

Thus  reassured,  Northrup  told  Kathryn  that  all  the  secret 
diplomacy  was  to  be  abandoned  and  that  his  mother  must 
work  with  them. 

"But,  Brace  dear,  you  don't  blame  me  for  my  fright? 
I  was  so  worried!" 

"No,  little  girl,  you  were  a  trump.  I'll  never  forget  how 
you  stood  by!" 

So  Helen  Northrup  put  herself  in  Manly's  hands — those 
strong,  faithful  hands.  She  went  to  a  hospital  for  various 
tests.  She  was  calm  but  often  afraid.  She  sometimes 
looked  at  the  pleasant,  thronged  streets  and  felt  a  loneliness, 
as  if  she  missed  herself  from  among  her  kind.  Manly  pooh- 
poohed  and  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders. 

"Women!  women!"  he  ejaculated,  but  there  were  hours 
when  he,  too,  had  his  fears. 

But  in  the  end,  black  doubt  was  driven  away. 

"Of  course,  my  dear  lady,"  Manly  said  relievedly,  patting 
her  hand,  "we  cannot  sprint  at  fifty-odd  as  we  did  at  twenty. 
But  a  more  leisurely  gait  is  enjoyable  and  we  can  take  time  to 
look  around  at  the  pleasant  things;  do  the  things  we've  always 
wanted  to  do — but  didn't  have  time  to  do.  Brace  must  get 
married — he'll  have  children  and  you'll  begin  all  over  with 
them.  Then  I'd  like  to  take  in  some  music  with  you  this 
winter.  I've  rather  let  my  pet  fads  drop  from  sheer  loneli- 
ness. Let's  go  to  light  opera — we're  all  getting  edgy  over 
here.  I  tell  you,  Helen,  it's  up  to  us  older  fry  to  steer  the 
youngsters  away  from  what  does  not  concern  them." 

Poor  Manly!  He  could  not  deafen  his  conscience  to  the 
growing  call  from  afar  and  already  he  saw  the  trend.  So  he 
talked  the  more  as  one  does  to  keep  his  courage  up  in  grave 
danger. 


230  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

With  his  anxiety  about  Helen  Northrup  removed,  Manly 
gave  attention  to  Brace.  Brace  puzzled  him.  He  acknowl- 
edged that  Northrup  had  never  looked  better;  the  trip  had 
done  wonders  for  him.  Yes;  that  was  it — something  rather 
wonderful  had  been  done. 

He  attacked  Northrup  one  day  in  his  sledge-hammer  style. 

"What  in  thunder  has  got  mixed  up  in  your  personality?" 
he  asked. 

"Oh!  I  suppose  anxiety  about  Mother,  Manly.  And  the 
thought  that  I  had  slipped  from  under  my  responsibilities. 
Had  she  died — well!  it's  all  right  now." 

But  this  did  not  satisfy  Manly. 

"Hang  it  all,  I  don't  mean  anxiety,"  he  blurted  out.  "The 
natural  stuff  I  can  estimate  and  label.  But  you  look  some- 
how as  if  you  had  been  switched  off  the  side  track  to  the 
main  line." 

"Or  the  other  way  about,  old  man?"  Northrup  broke  in 
and  laughed. 

"No,  sir;  you're  on  the  main  line,  all  right;  but  you  don't 
look  as  if  you  knew  where  you  were  going.  Keep  the  head- 
light on,  Brace." 

"Thanks,  Manly;  I  do  not  fully  understand  just  where  I 
may  land,  but  I'm  going  slow.  Now  this — this  horror  across 
seas "  Always  it  was  creeping  in,  these  days. 

"Oh!  that's  their  business,  Northrup.  They're  always 
scrapping — this  isn't  our  war,  old  man,"  Manly  broke  in 
roughly,  but  Northrup  shook  his  head. 

"Manly,  I  cannot  look  at  it  as  a  war — just  a  plain  war, 
you  know.  I've  had  a  queer  experience  that  I  will  tell  you 
about  some  day,  but  it  convinced  me  that  above  all,  and 
through  all,  there  is  a  Power  that  forces  us,  often  against  our 
best-laid  plans,  and  I  believe  that  Power  can  force  the  world 
as  well.  Manly,  take  it  from  me,  this  is  no  scrap  over  there, 
it's  a  soul-finder;  a  soul-creator,  more  like.  Before  we  get 
through,  a  good  many  nations  and  men  will  be  compelled  to 
look,  as  you  once  did,  at  bare,  gaunt  souls  or" — a  pause — 
"set  to  work  and  make  souls." 

Manly  twisted  in  his  seat  uneasily.     Northrup  went  on. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  231 

"Manly" — he  spoke  quietly,  evenly — "do  you  remember 
our  last  talk  in  this  office  before  I  left?" 

"Well,  some  of  it.     Yes." 

"Jogs,  you  know.  Mountain  peaks,  baby  hands,  women 
faces,  and  souls?" 

"Oh  lyes.  Sick  talk  to  a  sick  man."  Manly  snapped  his 
fingers. 

"Manly,  what  did  you  mean  by  saying  that  you  had  once 
seen  your  soul?"  Northrup  was  in  dead  earnest.  Manly 
swung  around  in  his  swivel  chair. 

"  I  meant  that  I  saw  mine  once,"  he  said  sharply,  definitely. 

"How  did  it  look?" 

"As  if  I  had  neglected  it.  A  shrunken,  shivering  thing." 
Manly  stopped  suddenly,  then  added  briefly:  "You  cannot 
starve  that  part  of  you,  Northrup,  without  a  get-back  some 
day." 

"No.  And  that's  exactly  what  I  am  up  against — the  get- 
back!" 

After  that  talk  with  Manly,  Northrup,  singularly  enough, 
felt  as  if  he  had  arrived  at  some  definite  conclusion;  had  re- 
ceived instructions  as  to  his  direction.  He  was  quietly  elated 
and,  sitting  in  his  office,  experienced  the  peace  and  satisfac- 
tion of  one  who  spiritually  submits  to  a  higher  Power. 

The  globe  of  light  on  the  peak  of  his  tower  seemed,  humor- 
ously, to  have  become  his  headlight — Manly's  figures  of 
speech  clung — its  white  and  red  flashes,  its  moments  of  dark- 
ness, were  like  the  workings  of  his  mind,  but  he  knew  no 
longer  the  old  depression.  He  was  on  the  main  line,  and  he 
had  his  orders — secret  ones,  so  far,  but  safe  ones. 

Kathryn  grew  more  charming  as  time  passed.  She  did  not 
seem  to  resent  Northrup's  detachment,  though  the  tower 
room  lured  him  dangerously.  Once  she  had  hinted  that  she'd 
love  to  see  his  workshop;  hear  some  of  his  work.  But  North- 
rup had  put  her  off. 

"Wait,  dear,  until  I've  finished  the  thing,  and  then  you 
and  I  will  have  a  regular  gorge  of  it,  up  in  my  tower." 

Kathryn  at  this  put  up  her  mouth  to  be  kissed  while  behind 
her  innocent  smile  she  was  picturing  the  girl  of  King's  Forest 


232  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

in  those  awful  muddy  trousers!  She  had  heard  the  book  in 
the  making;  she  had  not  been  pushed  aside. 

More  and  more  Mary-Clare  became  a  stumbling  block  to 
Kathryn.  She  felt  she  was  a  dangerous  type;  the  kind  men 
never  could  understand,  until  it  was  too  late,  and  never 
forgot.  And  Brace  was  changed.  The  subtle  unrest  did  not 
escape  Kathryn. 

"I  wonder "  And  Kathryn  did  wonder.  Wondered 

most  at  the  possibility  of  Mary-Clare  ever  appearing  on  the 
surface  again.  For — and  this  was  a  humiliating  thought  to 
Kathryn — she  realized  she  was  no  match  for  that  girl  of  the 
Forest! 

However,  Kathryn,  as  was  her  wont  when  things  went 
wrong,  pulled  down  the  shade  mentally,  as  once  she  had  done 
physically,  against  the  distasteful  conditions  Brace  had 
evolved. 

And  there  was  much  to  be  attended  to — so  Kathryn,  with 
great  efficiency,  set  to  work.  She  must  make  provision  for 
her  aunt's  future.  This  was  not  difficult,  for  poor  Anna  was 
so  relieved  that  any  provision  was  to  be  considered,  that  she 
accepted  Kathryn's  lowest  figure. 

Then  there  was  Arnold.  Sandy,  at  the  moment,  was  dis- 
gusted at  Northrup's  return.  It  interfered  with  his  plans. 
Sandy  had  a  long  and  keen  scent.  The  trouble  overseas  had 
awakened  a  response  in  him,  he  meant  to  serve  the  cause — 
but  in  his  own  way.  Secretly  he  was  preparing.  He  was 
buying  up  old  vessels,  but  old  vessels  were  expensive  and  the 
secrecy  prevented  his  borrowing  money.  He  wanted  to  get 
married,  too.  Kathryn,  with  only  his  protection  and  he 
with  Kathryn's  little  fortune,  would  create,  at  the  moment, 
a  situation  devoutly  to  be  desired. 

Kathryn  had  to  deal  with  this  predicament  cautiously. 
Sandy  was  so  horribly  matter-of-fact — not  a  grain  of  North- 
rup's idealism  about  him!  But  for  that  very  reason,  in  the 
abominably  upset  state  of  the  world,  he  was  not  lightly  to  be 
cast  on  the  scrap-heap.  One  never  could  tell!  Brace  might 
act  up  sentimentally,  but  Sandy  could  be  depended  upon 
always — he  was  a  rock! 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  233 

So  Kathryn,  embroidering  her  wedding  linen — for  she 
meant  to  be  married  soon — prayed  for  guidance. 

On  the  whole,  the  situation  was  most  gratifying.  No  won- 
der Kathryn  felt  well  pleased  with  herself  and  more  fully 
convinced  that,  with  such  wits  as  hers,  life  was  reduced  to  a 
common  factor.  Once  married  she  would  be  able  to  draw  a 
long  breath.  Marriage  was  such  a  divine  institution  for 
women.  It  gave  them  such  a  strangle-hold — with  the  right 
sort  of  men — and  Brace  was  the  right  sort. 

To  be  sure  he  was  not  entirely  satisfying  at  the  present 
moment.  His  attentions  smacked  too  much  of  duty.  He 
could  not  deceive  Kathryn.  He  sent  flowers  and  gifts  in 
such  profusion  that  they  took  on  the  aspect  of  blood  money. 
Well,  marriage  would  adjust  all  that. 

Helen  urged  an  early  date  for  the  wedding  and  even  Manly, 
who  did  not  like  Kathryn,  gripped  her  as  the  saviour  of  a 
critical  situation. 

King's  Forest  had  had  a  sinister  effect  upon  Manly;  it  made 
him  doubt  himself. 

And  so  life,  apparently,  ran  along  smoothly  on  the  surface. 
It  was  the  undercurrents  that  were  really  carrying  things 
along  at  a  terrific  rate. 

It  was  in  his  tower  room  that  most  of  Northrup's  struggle 
went  on.  Daily  he  confronted  that  which  Was  and  Had  To 
Be!  With  all  his  old  outposts  being  taken  day  by  day,  he 
was  left  bare  and  unprotected  for  the  last  assault.  And  it 
came! 

It  came  as  death  does,  quite  naturally  for  the  most  part, 
and  found  him — ready.  Like  the  dying — or  the  reborn — 
Northrup  put  his  loved  ones  to  the  acid  test.  His  mother 
would  understand.  Kathryn?  It  was  staggering,  at  this 
heart-breaking  moment,  to  discover,  after  all  the  recent 
proving  of  herself,  that  Kathryn  resolved  into  an  Unknown 
Quantity. 

This  discovery  filled  Northrup  with  a  sense  of  disloyalty 
and  unreality.  What  right  had  he  to  permit  the  girl  who 
was  to  be  his  wife,  the  mother  of  his  children,  to  be  relegated 
to  so  ignominious  a  position?  Had  she  not  proved  herself 


234  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

to  him  in  faithfulness  and  understanding?  Had  she  not, 
setting  aside  her  own  rights,  looked  well  to  his  ? 

The  days  dragged  along  and  each  one  took  its  toll  of  North- 
rup's  vitality  while  it  intensified  that  crusading  emotion  in 
his  soul. 

He  did  not  mention  all  this  to  those  nearest  him  until  the 
time  for  departure  came,  and  he  tried,  God  knew,  to  work 
while  he  performed  the  small,  devotional  acts  to  his  mother 
and  Kathryn  that  would  soon  stand  forth,  to  one  of  them  at 
least,  as  the  most  courageous  acts  of  his  life. 

He  had  come  to  that  part  of  his  book  where  his  woman 
must  take  her  final  stand — the  stand  that  Mary-Clare  had 
so  undermined.  If  he  finished  the  book  before  he  went — and 
he  decided  that  it  might  be  possible — his  woman  must  rise 
supreme  over  the  doubts  with  which  she  had  been  invested. 
But  when  he  came  to  the  point,  the  decision,  if  he  followed 
his  purpose,  looked  cheap  and  commonplace — above  every- 
thing, obvious.  In  his  present  mood  his  book  would  be  just 
— a  book;  not  the  Big  Experience. 

This  struggle  to  finish  his  work  in  the  face  of  the  stubborn 
facts  at  moments  obliterated  the  crusading  spirit;  the  doubts 
of  Kathryn  and  even  Mary-Clare's  pervading  insistence.  He 
hated  to  be  beaten  at  his  own  job. 

Love's  supreme  sacrifice  and  glory,  as  portrayed  in  woman 
— must  be  man's  ideal,  of  course! 

The  ugly  business  of  the  world  had  to  be  got  through,  and 
man  often  had  to  set  love  aside — for  honour.  "But,  good 
Lord!"  Northrup  argued,  apparently  to  his  useless  right  hand, 
what  would  become  of  the  spiritual,  if  woman  got  to  setting 
up  little  gods  and  bowing  down  before  them?  Why,  she 
would  forego  her  God-given  heritage.  To  her,  love  must  be 
all.  Above  all  else.  Why,  the  very  foundations  of  life  were 
founded  upon  that.  What  could  be  higher  to  a  woman  ? 
Man  could  look  out  for  the  rest,  but  he  must  be  sure  of  his 
woman's  love!  The  rest  would  be  in  their  own  hands — that 
was  their  individual  affair. 

And  then,  at  this  crucial  moment,  Mary-Clare  would  always 
intrude. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  235 

"It's  what  one  does  to  love!"  That  was  her  stern  ulti- 
matum. "Love's  best  proof  might  be  renunciation,  not 
surrender!" 

"Nonsense!"  Northrup  flung  back.  "How  then  could  a 
man  be  sure  ?  No  book  with  such  an  ending  would  stand  a 
chance." 

"You  must  not  harm  your  book  by  such  a  doubt.  That 
book  must  be  true,  and  you  know  the  truth.  Women  must 
be  made  glad  by  it,  men  stronger  because  someone  under- 
stands and  is  brave  enough  to  say  it." 

But  Northrup  steeled  his  heart  against  this  command. 
He  meant  to  finish  his  book;  finish  it  with  a  flaming  proof 
that,  while  men  offered  their  lives  for  duty,  women  offered 
theirs  for  love  and  did  not  count  the  cost,  like  misers  or — 
lenders. 

One  afternoon  Northrup,  the  ink  still  wet  upon  the  last 
sheet  of  his  manuscript,  leaned  back  wearily  in  his  chair. 
He  could  not  conquer  Mary-Clare.  He  let  his  eyes  rest  upon 
his  awakening  city.  For  him  it  rose  at  night.  In  the  day 
it  belonged  to  others — the  men  and  women,  passing  to  and 
fro  with  those  strange  eyes  and  jaws.  But  when  they  all 
passed  to  their  homes,  then  the  lone  city  that  was  his  started 
like  a  thing  being  born  upon  a  hill. 

It  may  have  been  at  one  of  these  strained  moments  that 
Northrup  slept;  he  was  never  able  to  decide.  He  seemed  to 
hold  to  the  twinkling  lights;  he  thought  he  heard  sounds — 
the  elevator  just  outside  his  door;  the  rising  wind. 

However  that  may  be,  as  clearly  as  any  impression  ever 
fixed  itself  upon  his  consciousness,  he  saw  Mary-Clare  beside 
him  in  her  stained  and  ugly  garb,  her  lovely  hair  ruffled  as 
if  she  had  been  travelling  fast,  and  her  great  eyes  turned 
upon  him  gladly.  She  was  panting  a  bit;  smiling  and  thank- 
ful that  she  had  found  him,  at  last  in  his  city! 

It  was  like  being  with  her  on  that  day  when  they  stood  on 
the  mountain  near  her  cabin  and  talked. 

Northrup  was  spellbound.  He  understood,  though  no 
word  passed  between  him  and  the  girl  so  close  to  him.  She 
did  not  try  to  touch  him,  but  she  did,  presently,  move  a  step 


236  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

nearer  and  lay  her  little  work-worn  hand  upon  the  pile  of 
manuscript  in  that  quaint  way  of  hers  that  had  so  often  made 
Northrup  smile.  It  was  a  reverent  touch. 

Standing  so,  she  sealed  from  him  those  last  chapters!  She 
would  not  argue  or  be  set  aside — she  claimed  her  woman- 
right;  the  right  to  the  truth  as  some  women  saw  it,  as  more 
would  see  it;  as,  God  willing,  Northrup  himself  would  see  it 
some  day!  He  would  know  that  it  was  because  of  love  that 
she  had  turned  him  and  herself  to  duty. 

Northrup  suddenly  found  himself  on  his  feet. 

The  little  room  was  dark;  the  city  was  blazing  about  him — 
under  him.  His  city!  His  hand  lay  upon  his  manuscript. 

Quietly  he  took  it  up  and  locked  it  in  his  safe.  Slowly, 
reverently,  he  set  the  bare  room  in  order  without  turning  on 
the  electricity.  He  worked  in  the  dark  but  his  vision  was 
never  clearer.  He  went  out,  locked  the  door,  as  one  does 
upon  a  chamber,  sacred  and  secret. 

He  did  not  think  of  Mary-Clare,  his  mother,  or  Kathryn — 
he  was  setting  forth  to  do  that  which  had  to  be  done;  he  was 
going  to  give  what  was  his  to  give  to  that  struggle  across  the 
ocean  for  right;  the  proving  of  right. 

All  along,  his  unrest  had  been  caused  by  the  warring  ele- 
ments in  himself — there  was  only  one  way  out — he  must 
take  it  and  be  proved  as  the  world  was  being  proved. 


CHAPTER  XX 

MOTHER,  I  must  go!" 
Helen  Northrup  did  not  tremble,  but  she  looked 
white,  thin-lipped. 

"You  have  given  me  the  twenty-four  hours,  son.  You 
have  weighed  the  question — it  is  not  emotional  excitement?" 

"No,  Mother,  it  is  conscience.  I'm  not  in  the  least  under 
an  illusion.  If  I  thought  of  this  thing  as  war — a  mere  fight — 
I  know  I  would  be  glad  to  avail  myself  of  any  honourable 
course  and  remain  here.  But  it's  bigger  than  war,  that  Thing 
that  is  deafening  and  blinding  the  world.  Sometimes "- 
Northrup  went  over  to  the  window  and  looked  out  into  the 
still  white  mystery  of  the  first  snowstorm — "sometimes  I 
think  it  is  God  Almighty's  last  desperate  way  to  awaken 
us." 

Helen  Northrup  came  to  the  window  and  stood  beside 
her  son.  She  did  not  touch  him;  she  stood  close — that  was 
all. 

"I  cannot  see  God  in  this,"  she  whispered.  "God  could 
have  found  another  way.  I  have — lost  God.  I  fear  most 
of  us  have." 

"Perhaps  we  never  had  Him,"  Northrup  murmured. 

"  But  there  is  God — somewhere."  Helen's  voice  quivered. 
"I  shall  always  be  near  you,  beloved,  always,  and  perhaps — 
God  will." 

"I  know  that,  Mother.  And  I  want  you  to  know  that  if 
this  call  wasn't  mightier  than  anything  else  in  all  the  world, 
I  would  not  leave  you." 

"Yes,  I  know  that,  dear  son." 

For  a  moment  they  stood  in  silence  by  the  window  and 
then  turned,  together,  to  the  fireside. 

They  were  in  Helen's  writing-room.     The  room  where  so 

^^^ 


238  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

often  she  had  struggled  to  put  enough  life  into  her  weak  little 
verses  to  send  them  winging  on  their  way.  The  drawers  of 
her  desk  were  full  of  sad  fancies  that  had  been  still-born,  or 
had  come  fluttering  back  to  her  ark  without  even  the  twig  of 
hope  to  cheer  her.  But  at  all  this  she  had  never  repined — 
she  had  her  son!  And  now?  Well,  he  was  leaving  her. 
Might  never 

Sitting  in  the  warmth  and  glow  the  woman  looked  at  her 
son.  With  all  the  yearning  of  her  soul  she  wanted  to  keep 
him;  she  had  so  little;  so  little.  And  then  she  recognized,  as 
women  do,  in  the  Temple  where  the  Most  High  speaks  to 
them,  that  if  he  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  best  that  was  in  him, 
she  could  not  honour  him. 

"You  have  been  happy,  dear  son  ?  I  mean  you  have  had  a 
happy  life  on  the  whole?" 

Helen  had  wanted  that  above  all  else.  His  life  had  been 
so  short — it  might  be  so  soon  over,  and  the  trivial  untalked-of 
things  rose  sharply  now  to  the  surface. 

"Yes,  Mother.     Far  too  happy  and  easy." 

"I've  been  thinking."  Helen's  thought  went  slowly  over 
the  backward  road — she  must  not  break!  But  she  must  go 
back  to  the  things  they  had  left  unspoken.  "  I've  been  think- 
ing, during  the  last  twenty-four  hours,  of  all  the  happenings, 
dear,  that  I  wish  had  been  different.  Your  father,  Brace! 
I — I  tried  not  to  deprive  you  of  your  father — I  knew  the  cost. 
It — it  wasn't  all  his  fault,  dear;  it  was  no  real  fault  of  either  of 
us;  it  was  my  misfortune,  you  see — he  was  asking  what — 
what  he  had  a  perfect  right  to  ask — but  I  was,  well,  I  had  noth- 
ing to  give  him  that  he  wanted." 

Northrup  went  across  the  space  between  him  and  his 
mother  and  laid  his  hand  upon  hers. 

"Mother,  I  understand.  Lately  I  have  felt  a  new  sympa- 
thy for  Father,  and  a  new  contempt.  He  missed  a  lot  that 
was  worth  while,  but  he  did  not  know.  It  was  damnable; 
he  might  have — kept  you." 

"No,  Brace.  It  is  the  world's  thought.  I  have  never 
been  bitter.  I  only  wish  he  could  have  been  happy — after — 
after  he  went  away." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  239 

"And  he  wasn't?"  This  had  never  been  discussed  be- 
tween them. 

"No,  dear.  He  married  a  woman  who  seemed  to  be  what 
he  wanted.  She  wearied  of  him.  He  died  a  lonely,  a  bitter 
man.  I  was  saved  the  bitterness,  at  least,  and  I  had  you." 

Another  pause.     Then: 

"Brace,  I  know  it  will  seem  foolish,  but  perhaps  when 
you  are  far  away  it  won't  seem  so  foolish.  I  want  to  tell 
you,  dear,  that  I  wish  I  had  never  spoken  a  harsh  word  to 
you.  Life  hurts  so  at  the  best — many  women  are  feeling 
this  as  I  do,  dear.  Once — you  must  humour  me,  Brace — 
once,  after  I  punished  you,  I  regretted  it.  I  asked  your 
pardon  and  you  said,  'Don't  mention  it,  Mother,  I  under- 
stood.' I  want  you  to  say  it  now,  son;  it  will  be  such  a 
comfort." 

"I  believe,  God  hearing  me,  Mother,  that  I  have  under- 
stood; have  always  known  that  you. were  the  best  and  dearest 
of  mothers." 

"Thank  you." 

"And  now,  Mother,  there  is  one  thing  more.  We  may  not 
have  another  opportunity  for  a  real  house-cleaning.  It's 
about  King's  Forest." 

Helen  started,  but  she  stiffened  at  once. 

"Yes,  Brace,"  she  said  simply. 

"There  is  a  girl,  a  woman  there.  Such  things  as  relate  to 
that  woman  and  me  often  happen  to  men  and  women.  It's 
what  one  does  to  the  happening  that  counts.  I  realize  that 
my  life  has  had  much  in  it;  but  much  was  left  out  of  it. 
Much  that  is  common  stuff  to  most  fellows;  they  take  it  in 
portions.  It  came  all  at  once  to  me,  but  she  was  strong 
enough,  fine  enough  to  help  me;  not  drift  with  me.  I  wanted 
you  to  know." 

"Thank  you.  I  understand.  Is  there  anything  you 
would  like  to  have  me  do  ?" 

"No.  Nothing,  Mother.  It  is  all  right;  it  had  to  happen, 
I  suppose.  I  wanted  you  to  know.  We  did  not  dishonour 
the  thing — she's  quite  wonderful."  A  pause;  then: 

"She  has  a  brute  of  a  husband — I  hope  I  freed  her  of  him, 


24o  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

in  a  way;  I'm  glad  to  think  of  that  now.  She  has  a  child,  a 
little  girl,  and  there  were  some  dead  children." 

This  detail  seemed  tragically  necessary  to  tell;  it  seemed 
to  explain  all  else. 

"And  now,  Mother,  I  must  go  around  to  Kathryn's.  Do 
not  sit  up,  dear.  I'll  come  to  your  room." 

"Very  well."  Then  Helen  stood  up  and  laid  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders.  "Some  sons  and  daughters,"  she  said  slowly, 
convincingly,  "learn  how  to  bear  life,  in  part,  from  their 
parents — I  have  learned  from  my  son." 

Then  she  raised  her  hands  and  drew  his  head  down  to  hers 
and  rested  her  cheek  against  his.  Without  a  word  more 
Northrup  left  the  house.  He  was  deeply  moved  by  the  scene 
through  which  he  and  his  mother  had  just  passed.  It  had 
consisted  of  small  and  trivial  things;  of  overwhelmingly  big 
things,  but  it  had  been  marked  by  a  complete  understanding 
and  had  brought  them  both  to  a  point  where  they  could 
separate  with  faith  and  hope. 

But  as  Northrup  neared  Kathryn's  house  this  exalted  feel- 
ing waned.  Again  he  was  aware  of  the  disloyal  doubt  of 
Kathryn  that  made  him  hesitate  and  weigh  his  method  of 
approach.  He  stood,  before  touching  the  bell  of  the  Morris 
house,  and  shook  the  light  snow  from  his  coat;  he  was  glad  of 
delay.  When  at  last  he  pushed  the  button  he  instinctively 
braced.  The  maid  who  admitted  him  told  him  that  he  was 
to  go  to  the  library. 

This  was  the  pleasantest  room  in  the  house,  especially  at 
night.  The  lighting  was  perfect;  the  old  books  gave  forth  a 
welcoming  fragrance  and,  to-night,  a  generous  cannel  coal 
fire  puffed  in  rich,  glowing  bursts  of  heat  and  colour  upon  the 
hearth.  Kathryn  was  curled  up  in  the  depths  of  a  leather 
chair,  her  pretty  blonde  head  just  showing  above  the  top. 
She  did  not  get  up  but  called  merrily: 

"Here,  dear!  Come  and  be  comfy.  This  is  a  big  chair 
and  a  very  little  me." 

Northrup  came  around  in  front  of  the  chair,  his  back  to 
the  fire,  and  looked  down  upon  the  small  figure.  The  blue 
blur  of  the  evening  gown,  the  exquisite  whiteness  of  arms, 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  241 

neck,  and  face  sank  into  his  consciousness.  Unconsciously 
he  was  fixing  scenes  in  his  memory,  as  one  secures  pictures 
in  a  scrap-book,  for  the  future. 

"Been  dining  out,  dear?" 

The  dress  suggested  this,  but  Kathryn  was  alert. 

"  Don't  be  a  silly  old  cave  thing,  Brace.  One  cannot  throw 
an  old  friend  overboard  in  cold  blood,  now  can  one?  Sandy 
is  going  away  for  a  week,  but  I  told  him  to-night  that  never, 
never  again  would  I  dine  with  him  alone.  Now  will  you  be 
good?" 

Still  Northrup  did  not  smile.  He  was  not  concerned  about 
Arnold,  but  he  seemed  such  a  nuisance  at  this  moment. 

Kathryn,  regarding  Northrup's  face,  sat  up  and  her  eyes 
widened. 

"What's  the  matter,  Brace?"  she  asked,  and  the  hard, 
metallic  ring  was  in  her  voice.  Northrup  misunderstood 
the  change.  He  felt  that  he  had  startled  her.  He  sat  down 
upon  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"  Poor  little  girl,"  he  whispered.  Kathryn  also  misunder- 
stood, she  nestled  against  him. 

"Big  man,"  she  murmured,  "he  is  going  to  be  nice.  Kiss 
me  here — close  behind  my  right  ear — always  and  always  that 
is  going  to  be  just  your  place." 

Northrup  did  not  seem  to  hear.  He  bent  closer  until  his 
face  pressed  the  soft,  scented  hair,  but  he  did  not  kiss  the 
spot  dedicated  to  him.  Instead  he  said: 

"Darling,  I  am  going  away!" 

"Away — where?"     Kathryn  became  rigid. 

"Overseas." 

"Overseas?     What  for,  in  heaven's  name?" 

"Oh!  anything  they'll  let  me  do.  I'm  going  as  soon  as  I 
can  be  sent — but " 

"You  mean,  without  any  reason  whatever,  you're  going  to 
go  over  there  ? " 

"Hardly  without  something  that  stands  for  reason, 
Kathryn." 

"  But  no  one,  not  even  Doctor  Manly,  thinks  that  it  is  our 
fight,  Brace.  The  men  who  have  gone  are  simply  adven- 


242  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

turers;  men  who  love  excitement  or  men  who  want  to  cut 
responsibilities  and  don't  dare  confess  it." 

Kathryn's  face  flamed  hot. 

"Their  lives  must  be  pretty  damnable,"  Northrup  broke 
in,  "if  they  take  such  a  method  to  fling  them  aside.  Do  try 
to  understand,  dear;  our  women  must,  you  know."  There 
was  pleading  in  the  words. 

Then  by  one  of  those  sudden  reversions  of  her  nimble  wits, 
Kathryn  recalled  things  she  had  heard  recently — and  im- 
mediately she  took  the  centre  of  her  well-lighted  stage,  and 
horrible  as  it  might  seem,  saw  herself,  a  ravishing  picture  in 
fascinating  widow's  weeds!  While  this  vision  was  holding, 
Kathryn  clung  to  Northrup  and  was  experiencing  actual 
distress — not  ghoulish  pleasure. 

"Oh!  you  must  not  leave  me,"  she  quivered. 

"You  will  help  me,  Kathryn;  be  a  woman  like  my  mother  ?" 
Again  Northrup  pleaded.  This  was  unfortunate.  It  steadied 
Kathryn,  but  it  hardened  her. 

"You  want  me  to  marry  you  at  once,  Brace?"  she  whis- 
pered. 

"No,  dear.  That  would  not  be  fair  to  you.  I  want  you 
to  understand;  I  want  to  know  that  you  will — will  keep 
Mother  company.  That  is  all,  until  I  come  home.  I  could 
not  feel  justified  in  asking  a  woman  to  marry  such  a — such  a 
chance  as  I  am  about  to  be." 

Now  there  was  cause  for  what  Kathryn  suddenly  felt,  but 
not  the  cause  she  suspected.  Had  Northrup  loved  deeply, 
faithfully,  understandingly,  he  might,  as  others  did,  see  that 
to  the  right  woman  the  "chance,"  as  he  termed  himself, 
would  become  her  greatest  glory  and  hope,  but  as  it  was 
Northrup  considered  only  Kathryn's  best  good  and,  grop- 
ingly, he  realized  that  her  interests  and  his  were  not,  at  the 
present,  identical. 

But  Kathryn,  her  ever-present  jealousy  and  apprehension 
rising,  was  carried  from  her  moorings.  She  recalled  the  evi- 
dences of  "duty"  in  Northrup's  attitude  toward  her  since  his 
return  from  King's  Forest;  his  abstraction  and  periods  of  low 
spirits. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  243 

"He  cannot  stand  it  any  longer,"  she  thought  resentfully; 
"he's  willing  to  do  anything,  take  any  chance." 

A  hot  wave  of  anger  enveloped  Kathryn,  but  she  did  not 
speak. 

"Kathryn" — Northrup  grew  restive  at  her  silence — 
"haven't  you  anything  to  say  to  me?  Something  I  can 
remember — over  there  ?  I'd  like  to  think  of  you  as  I  see  you 
now,  little,  pretty,  and  loving.  The  blue  gown,  the  jolly  fire, 
this  fine  old  room — I  reckon  there  will  be  times  when  my 
thoughts  will  cling  to  the  old  places  and  my  own  people  rather 
fiercely." 

"What  can  I  say,  Brace?  You  never  see  my  position. 
Men  are  selfish  always,  even  about  their  horrible  fights. 
What  do  they  care  about  their  women,  when  the  call  of  blood 
comes  ?  Oh !  I  hate  it  all,  I  hate  it !  Everything  upset — men 
coming  back,  heaven  only  knows  how!  even  if  they  come  at 
all — but  we  women  must  let  them  go  and  smile  so  as  to  send 
them  ofF  unworried.  We  must  stay  home  and  be  nothings 
until  the  end  and  then  take  what's  left — joyfully,  gratefully 
-oh!  I  hate  it  all." 

Northrup  got  up  and  stood  again  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 
He  loomed  rather  large  and  dark  before  Kathryn's  angry 
eyes.  She  feared  he  was  going  to  say  the  sentimental  regula- 
tion thing,  but  he  did  not.  Sorrowfully  he  said: 

"What  you  say,  dear,  is  terribly  true.  It  isn't  fair  nor 
decent  and  there  are  times  when  I  feel  only  shame  because, 
after  all  these  centuries,  we  have  thought  out  no  better  way; 
but,  Kathryn,  women  are  taking  part  in  this  trouble — perhaps 


you 

"You  mean  that  /  may  go  over  into  that  shambles — if  I 
want  to?"  WTith  this  Kathryn  sprang  to  her  feet.  "Well, 
thanks!  I  do  not  want  to.  I'm  not  the  kind  of  girl  who 
takes  her  dissipation  that  way.  If  I  ever  let  go,  I'll  take  my 
medicine  and  not  expect  to  be  shielded  by  this  sentimen- 
tality." 

"Kathryn,  how  can  you ?  My  dear,  my  dear!  Say  what 
you  want  to  about  my  folly — men's  mistakes — but  do  not 
speak  so  of  your — sisters!" 


244  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"Sisters?"  Kathryn  laughed  her  mirthless  but  musical 
laugh.  "You  are  funny,  Brace!" 

Then,  as  was  her  way  when  she  lost  control,  Kathryn  made 
straight  for  the  rocks  while  believing  she  was  guided  by 
divine  intuition.  She  faced  Northrup,  looking  up  at  him 
from  her  lower  level. 

"  I  think  I  understand  the  whole  matter,"  she  said  slowly, 
all  traces  of  excitement  gone.  "  I  am  going  to  prove  it.  Will 
you  marry  me  before  you  go?" 

"No,  Kathryn.     This  is  a  matter  of  principle  with  me." 

"You  think  they  might  not  let  you  go — you'd  have  to  pro- 
vide for  my  protection  ?" 

"No,  I  am  not  afraid  of  that.  You'd  be  well  provided  for; 
I  would  go  under  any  circumstances,  but  I  will  not  permit  you 
to  take  a  leap  in  the  dark." 

"That  sounds  very  fine,  but  /  do  not  believe  it!" 

The  black  wings  that  poor  Jan-an  had  suspected  under 
Kathryn's  fine  plumage  were  flapping  darkly  now.  Kathryn 
was  awed  by  Northrup's  silence  and  aloofness.  She  was 
afraid,  but  still  angry.  What  was  filling  her  own  narrow 
mind,  she  believed,  was  filling  Northrup's  and  she  lost  all 
sense  of  proportion. 

"Is  she  going  over  there?"  she  asked. 

Northrup,  if  possible,  looked  more  bewildered  and  dazed. 

"She — whom  do  you  mean,  Kathryn?" 

"Oh!  I  never  meant  to  tell  you!  You  drive  me  to  it, 
Brace.  I  always  meant  to  blot  it  out " 

Kathryn  got  no  further  just  then.  Northrup  came  close  to 
her  and  with  folded  arms  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  flushed  face. 

"Kathryn,  you're  excited;  you've  lost  control  of  yourself, 
but  there's  something  under  all  this  that  we  must  get  at. 
Just  answer  my  questions.  Whom  do  you  mean — by  'she'  ?" 

Kathryn  mentally  recoiled  and  with  her  back  to  her  wall 
replied,  out  of  the  corner  of  her  mouth: 

"That  girl  in  King's  Forest!" 

From  sheer  astonishment  Northrup  drew  back  as  from  a 
blow.  Kathryn  misunderstood  and  gained  courage. 

"I  forgave  it  because  I  love  you,  Brace."     She  gathered 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  245 

her  cheap  little  charms  together — her  sex  appeals.     "I  un- 
derstood from  the  moment  I  saw  her." 

"When  did  you  see  her ?    Where ?" 

Northrup  had  recovered  himself;  he  was  able  to  think. 
He  knew  he  must  act  quickly,  emphatically,  and  he  gener- 
ously tried  to  be  just. 

Keen  to  take  advantage  of  what  she  believed  was  guilt, 
Kathryn  responded,  dragging  her  lures  along  with  her. 

"  Please,  dear  Brace,  do  not  look  at  me  so  sternly.  I  could 
not  help  what  happened  and  I  suffered  so,  although  I  never 
meant  to  let  you  know.  You  see,  I  walked  in  the  woods  that 
day  that  I  went  to  King's  Forest  to  tell  you  about  your 
mother.  A  queer-looking  girl  told  me  that  you  lived  at  the 
inn,  but  were  then  in  the  woods.  I  went  to  find  you;  to  meet 
you — can  you  not  understand  ?" 

The  tears  stood  in  Kathryn's  eyes,  her  mouth  quivered. 
Northrup  softened. 

"Go  on,  Kathryn.     I  do  understand." 

"Well,  I  came  to  a  cabin  in  the  woods,  I  don't  know  why, 
but  something  made  me  think  it  was  yours.  You  would  be 
so  likely  to  take  such  a  place  as  that,  dear.  I  went  in — to 
wait  for  you;  to  sit  and  think  about  you,  to  calm  mvself — and 
then " 

"Yes,  Kathryn!"  Northrup  was  seeing  it  all — the  cabin, 
the  silent  red-and-gold  woods. 

"And  then — she  came!  Oh!  Brace,  a  man  can  never  know 
how  a  woman  feels  at  such  a  moment — you  see  there  were 
some  sheets  of  your  manuscript  on  the  table — I  was  looking 
at  them  when  the  girl  came  in.  Brace,  she  was  quite  awful; 
she  frightened  me  terribly.  She  asked  who  I  was  and  I  told 
her — I  thought  that  would  at  least  make  her  see  my  side; 
explain  things — but  it  did  not!  She  was — she  was"- 
Kathryn  ventured  a  bolder  dash — "she  was  quite  violent. 
I  cannot  remember  all  she  said — she  said  so  much — a  girl 
does  when  she  realizes  what  she  must  have  realized.  Oh! 
Brace,  I  tried  to  be  kind,  but  I  had  to  take  your  part  and  she 
turned  me  out!" 

In  all  this  Northrup  felt  his  way  as  one  does  along  a  narrow 


246  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

passage  beset  on  either  side  with  dangers.  Characteristi- 
cally he  saw  his  own  wrong  in  originally  creating  the  situation. 
Not  for  an  instant  did  he  doubt  Kathryn's  story;  indeed,  she 
rose  in  his  regard;  for  he  felt  for  her  deeply.  He  had,  un- 
wittingly, set  a  trap  for  her  innocent,  girlish  feet;  brought 
her  to  bay  with  what  she  could  not  possibly  understand;  and 
the  belief  that  she  had  been  merciful,  had  accepted,  in  silence, 
at  a  time  when  his  trouble  absorbed  her,  touched  and  hu- 
miliated him;  and  yet,  try  as  he  did  to  consider  only  Kathryn, 
he  could  not  disregard  Mary-Clare.  He  could  not  picture 
her  in  a  coarse  rage;  the  idea  was  repellent,  but  he  acknowl- 
edged that  the  dramatic  moment,  lived  through  by  two 
stranger-women  with  much  at  stake,  was  beyond  his  powers 
of  imagination.  The  great  thing  that  mattered  now  was 
that  his  duty,  since  a  choice  must  be  made,  was  to  Kathryn. 
By  every  right,  as  he  saw  it,  she  must  claim  his  allegiance. 
And  yet,  what  was  there  to  be  done  ? 

Northrup  was  silent;  his  inability  to  express  himself  con- 
demned him  in  her  eyes,  and  yet,  strangely  enough,  he  had 
never  been  more  desirable  to  her. 

"Marry  me,  dear.  Let  me  prove  my  love  to  you.  No 
matter  what  lies  back  there,  I  forgive  everything!  That  is 
what  love  means  to  a  woman  like  me." 

Love!     This  poor,  shabby  counterfeit. 

With  a  sickening  sense  of  repulsion  Northrup  drew  back, 
and  maddeningly  his  book,  not  Kathryn,  seemed  to  fill  his 
aching  brain.  With  this  conception  of  love  revealed — how 
blindly  he  had  misunderstood.  He  tried  to  speak;  did  speak 
at  last — he  heard  his  words,  but  was  not  conscious  of  their 
meaning. 

"You  are  wrong,  child.  Whatever  folly  was  committed  in 
King's  Forest  was  mine,  not  that  girl's.  I  suppose  I  was  a 
bit  mad  without  knowing  it,  but  I  will  not  accept  your  sacri- 
fice, Kathryn,  I  will  not  ask  for  forgiveness.  When  I  come 
home,  if  you  still  love  me,  I  will  devote  my  life  to  you.  We 
will  start  afresh — the  whole  world  will." 

"You  are  going  at  once?"  Kathryn  clutched  at  what  was 
eluding  her. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  247 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

"And  you  won't  marry  me?    Won't — prove  to  me?" 

"No." 

"Oh!  how  can  you  leave  me  to  think " 

"Think  what,  Kathryn?" 

"Oh!  things — about  her.  It  would  be  such  a  proof  of  what 
you've  just  said — if  only  you  would  marry  me  now." 

"  Kathryn,  I  cannot.  I  am — I  wish  that  you  could  under- 
stand— I  am  stepping  out  into  the  dark.  I  must  go  alone." 

"That  is  absurd,  Brace.  Absurd."  A  baffled,  desperate 
note  rang  in  Kathryn's  voice.  It  was  not  for  Northrup,  but 
for  her  first  sense  of  failure.  Then  she  looked  up.  All  the 
resentment  gone  from  her  face,  she  was  the  picture  of  de- 
spair. 

"I  will  wait  for  you,  Brace.  I  will  prove  to  you  what  a 
woman's  real  love  is!" 

So,  cleverly,  did  she  bind  what  she  intuitively  felt  was  the 
highest  in  Northrup.  And  he  bent  and  laid  his  lips  on  the 
smooth  girlish  forehead,  sorrowfully  realizing  how  little  he 
had  to  offer. 

A  few  moments  later  Northrup  found  himself  on  the  street. 
The  snow  was  falling  thicker,  faster.  It  had  the  smothering 
quality  that  is  so  mysterious.  People  thudded  along  as  if 
on  padded  feet;  the  lights  were  splashed  with  clinging  flakes 
and  gleamed  yellow-red  in  the  whiteness.  Sounds  were 
muffled;  Northrup  felt  blotted  out. 

He  loved  the  sensation — it  was  like  a  great,  absorbing  Force 
taking  him  into  its  control  and  erasing  forever  the  bungling 
past.  He  purposely  drifted  for  an  hour  in  the  storm.  He 
was  like  a  moving  part  of  it,  and  when  at  last  he  reached 
home,  he  stood  in  the  vestibule  for  many  moments  extricating 
himself — it  was  more  that  than  shaking  the  snow  off.  He 
felt  singularly  free. 

Once  within  the  house,  he  went  directly  to  his  mother's 
room.  She  was  lying  on  a  couch  by  the  fire.  In  the  shelter 
of  her  warm,  quiet  place  Helen  seemed  to  have  gained 
what  Brace  had  won  in  the  storm.  She  was  smiling,  almost 
eager. 


248  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"Yes,  dear?"  she  said. 

Northrup  sat  down  in  the  chair  that  was  his  by  his  mother's 
hearth. 

"Kathryn  wanted  to  marry  me,  Mother,  at  once." 

"That  would  be  like  her,  bless  her  heart!" 

"I  could  not  accept  the  sacrifice,  Mother." 

"That  would  be  like  you — but  is  it  a  sacrifice?" 

"It  seems  so  to  me." 

"You  see,  son,  to  many  women  this  is  the  supreme  offer- 
ing. All  they  can  give,  vicariously,  at  this  great  demanding 
hour." 

"Women  must  learn  to  stop  that  rubbish,  Mother.  We 
men  must  refuse  it." 

"Why,  Brace!"  Then:  "Are  you  quite,  quite  sure  it 
was  all  for  Kathryn,  son  ?" 

"No,  partly  for  myself;  but  that  must  include  and  em- 
phasize Kathryn's  share." 

"I  see — at  least  I  think  I  do." 

"But  you  have  faith,  Mother?" 

"Yes,  faith!     Surely,  faith." 

After  a  silence,  broken  only  by  the  sputtering  of  the  fire 
and  that  soft,  mystic  pattering  of  the  snow  on  the  window 
glass,  Northrup  asked  gently: 

"And  you,  Mother,  what  will  you  do?  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  of  you  waiting  here  alone." 

Helen  Northrup  rose  slowly  from  the  couch;  her  long, 
loose  gown  trailed  softly  as  she  walked  to  the  fireplace  and 
stood  leaning  one  elbow  on  the  shelf. 

"I'm  not  going  to — wait,  dear,  in  the  sense  you  mean. 
I'm  going  to  work  and  get  ready  for  your  return." 

"Work?"  Northrup  looked  anxious.  Helen  smiled  down 
upon  him. 

"While  you  have  been  preparing,"  she  said,  "so  have  I. 
There  is  something  for  me  to  do.  My  poor  little  craft  that 
I  have  pottered  at,  keeping  it  alive  and  praying  over  it — my 
writing  job,  dear;  I  have  offered  for  service.  It  has  been 
accepted.  It  is  my  great  secret — I've  kept  it  for  you  as 
my  last  gift.  When  you  come  home,  I'll  tell  you  about 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  249 

it.  While  you  are  away  you  must  think  of  me,  busy — 
busy!" 

Then  she  bent  and  laid  her  pale  fine  face  against  the  dark 
bowed  head. 

"You  are  tired,  dear,  very,  very  tired.  You  must  go  to 
bed  and  rest — there  is  so  much  to  do;  so  much." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IN  KING'S  FOREST  many  strange  and  awe-inspiring 
things  had  happened — but,  as  far  as  the  Forest  people 
knew,  they  were  so  localized  that,  like  a  cancer,  they 
were  eating  in,  deeper  and  deeper — to  the  death. 

The  winter,  with  its  continuous  snow  and  cruel  ice,  had 
obliterated  links;  only  certain  centres  glowed  warm  and  alive, 
though  even  they  ached  with  the  pain  of  blows  they  had 
endured. 

The  Mines.  The  Point.  The  Inn.  The  Little  Yellow 
House.  These  throbbed  and  pulsated  and  to  them,  more 
often  than  of  old — or  so  it  seemed — the  bell  in  the  deserted 
chapel  sent  its  haunting  messages — messages  rung  out  by  un- 
seen hands. 

"There's  mostly  lost  winds  this  winter,"  poor  Jan-an  whim- 
pered to  Peneluna.  "I  have  feelin's  most  all  the  time.  I'm 
scared  early  and  late,  and  that  cold  my  bones  jingle." 

Peneluna,  softened  and  more  silent  than  ever,  comforted 
the  girl,  wrapped  her  in  warmer  clothes,  and  sent  her  scurrying 
across  the  frozen  lake  to  the  yellow  house. 

"And  don't  come  back  till  spring!"  she  commanded. 

"Spring?"  Jan-an  paused  as  she  was  strapping  on  an  old 
pair  of  skates  that  once  belonged  to  Philander  Sniff.  "  Spring  ? 
Gawd!" 

It  was  a  terrific  winter.  The  still,  intense  kind  that  grips 
every  snowstorm  as  a  miser  does  his  money,  hiding  it  in  secret 
places  of  the  hills  where  the  divine  warmth  of  the  sun  cannot 
find  it. 

The  wind,  early  in  November,  set  in  the  north!  Occasion- 
ally the  "ha'nt  wind"  troubled  it;  wailed  a  bit  and  caught 
the  belfry  bell,  and  then  gave  up  and  sobbed  itself  away. 

At  the  inn  a  vague  something — was  it  old  age  or  lost  faith  ? 

250 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  251 

— was  trying  to  conquer  Peter's  philosophy  and  Aunt  Polly's 
spiritual  vision.  The  Thing,  whatever  it  was,  was  having  a 
tussle,  but  it  made  its  marks.  Peter  sat  oftener  by  the  fire 
with  Ginger  edging  close  to  the  leg  that  the  gander  had  once 
damaged  and  which,  now,  acted  as  an  indicator  for  Peter's 
moods.  When  he  did  not  want  to  talk  his  "leg  ached." 
When  his  heart  sank  in  despair  his  "leg  ached."  But  Polly, 
a  little  thinner,  a  little  more  dim  as  to  far-off  visions,  caught 
every  mood  of  Peter's  and  sent  it  back  upon  him  like  a  boome- 
rang. She  met  his  silent  hours  with  such  a  flare  of  talk  that 
Peter  responded  in  self-defence.  His  black  hours  she  clutched 
desperately  and  held  them  up  for  him  to  look  at  after  she 
had  charged  them  with  memories  of  goodness  and  love. 

As  for  herself?  Well,  Aunt  Polly  nourished  her  own  brave 
spirit  by  service  and  an  insistent,  demanding  cry  of  justice. 

'  'Tain't  fair  and  square  to  hold  anything  against  the 
Almighty,"  she  proclaimed,  "till  you've  given  Him  a  chance 
to  show  what  He  did  things  for." 

Polly  waxed  eloquent  and  courageous;  she  kept  her  own 
faith  by  voicing  it  to  others;  it  grew  upon  reiteration. 

Peter  was  in  one  of  his  worst  combinations — silence  and 
low  spirits — when  Polly  entered  the  kitchen  one  early  after- 
noon. A  glance  at  the  huddling  form  by  the  red-hot  range 
had  the  effect  of  turning  Polly  into  steel.  She  looked  at  Gin- 
ger, who  reflected  his  master's  moods  pathetically,  and  her 
steel  became  iron. 

"I  suppose  if  I  ask  you,  Peter,  how  you're  feeling,"  she 
said  slowly,  calmly,  "you'll  fling  your  leg  in  my  face!  It's 
monstrous  to  see  how  an  able-bodied  man  can  use  any  old  lie 
to  save  his  countenance." 

"My  leg "  Peter  began,  but  Polly  stopped  him.     She 

had  hung  her  coat  and  hood  in  the  closet  and  came  to  the  fire, 
patting  her  thin  hair  in  order  and  then  stretching  her  small, 
blue-veined  hands  to  the  heat. 

"Don't  leg  me,  Peter  Heathcote,  I'm  terrible  ashamed  of 
you.  Terrible.  So  long  as  you  have  legs,  brother — and  you 
have  ! — I  say  use  'em.  Half  the  troubles  in  this  world  are 
think  troubles,  laid  to  legs  and  backs  and  what  not." 


252  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"Where  you  been  ?"  Peter  eyed  the  stern  little  face  glower- 
ing at  him.  "You  look  tuckered." 

"I  wasn't  tuckered  until  I  set  my  eyes  on  you,  Peter. 
I've  been  considerable  set  up  to-day.  I  went  to  Mary- 
Clare's.  She  is  mighty  heartening.  She's  gathered  all  the 
children  she  can  get  and  she's  teaching  them.  She's  mimick- 
ing the  old  doctor's  plan — making  him  live  again,  she  calls  it 
— and  the  Lord  knows  we  need  someone  in  the  Forest  who 
doesn't  set  chewing  his  own  troubles,  but  gets  out  and  does 
things!" 

Peter  winced  and  Polly  rambled  on: 

"It's  really  wonderful  the  way  that  slip  of  a  thing  handles 
those  children.  She  has  made  the  yellow  house  like  a  fairy 
story — evergreens,  red  leaves  and  berries  hanging  about,  and 
all  the  dogs  with  red-ribbon  collars.  They  look  powerful 
foolish,  but  they  don't  look  like  poor  Ginger,  who  acts  as  if 
he  was  being  smothered!" 

Peter  regarded  the  dog  by  his  side  and  remarked  sadly: 

"I  guess  we  better  change  this  dog's  name.  Ginger  is 
like  an  insult  to  him.  Ginger!  Lord-a-mighty,  there  ain't 
no  ginger  left  in  him." 

"Peter,  you're  all  wrong.  There  are  times  when  I  think 
Ginger  is  more  gingery  than  ever.  You  don't  have  to  dash 
around  after  yer  tail  to  prove  yer  ginger,  the  thinking  part  of 
you  can  be  terrible  nimble  even  when  yer  bones  stiffen  up. 
Ginger  does  things,  brother,  that  sometimes  makes  my  flesh 
creepy.  Do  you  know  what  he  does  when  he  can  get  away 
from  you?" 

"No."  Peter's  hair  sprang  up;  his  face  reddened.  Polly 
noted  the  good  signs  and  took  heart. 

"Why,  he  joins  Mary-Clare's  dogs  and  fetches  the  littlest 
children  to  the  yellow  house.  Carries  lunch  pails,  pulls  sleds, 
and  I've  seen  that  little  crippled  tot  of  Jonas  Mills'  on  Gin- 
ger's back.  Ain't  that  ginger  fur  yer?  I  tell  you,  Peter, 
it's  you  as  ails  that  dog — he's  what  you  make  him.  I  reckon 
the  Lord,  that  isn't  unmindful  of  sparrows,  takes  notice  of 
dogs."  Then  suddenly,  Polly  demanded:  "  Peter,  what  is  it, 
just?" 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  253 

Polly  drew  her  diminutive  rocker  to  the  stove  and  settled 
back  against  its  gay  cretonne  cushions — a  vivid  bird  of 
Paradise  flamed  just  where  her  aching  head  rested. 

"Well,  Polly"— Peter  slapped  the  leg  that  he  had  lied 
about — "you  and  I  came  to  the  Forest  half  a  century  ago 
and  felt  real  perky.  We  thought,  under  God,  we'd  make  the 
Forest  something  better;  the  people  more  like  people.  We 
came  from  a  city  with  all  sorts  of  patterns  of  folks;  we  had 
ideas.  The  Forest  gave  me  health  and  we  were  grateful  and 
chesty.  It  all  keeps  coming  back  and — and  swamping  me." 

"Yes,  brother,  and  what  else?" 

"At  first  we  did  seem  to  count,  under  God,  of  course.  We 
shut  up  the  bar  and  fixed  up  the  inn  and  we  thought  we  was 
caring  for  folks  and  protecting  'em."  Peter  gulped. 

"I  guess  the  Lord  can  care  for  His  own,  Peter,"  Polly  re- 
marked fiercely. 

"Then  Maclin  came!"  Peter  groaned  out  the  words,  for 
this  was  the  crux  of  the  matter. 

"Yes — Maclin  came."  Aunt  Polly  wiped  her  eyes.  "And 
I  think,  looking  back,  that  something  had  to  happen  to  wake 
us  up!  Maclin  was  a  tester." 

Peter  gave  a  rumbling  laugh. 

"Maclin  a  tester!"  he  repeated.  "Lord,  Polly,  yer  no- 
tions are  more  messing  than  clearing." 

"Well,  anyway,  Peter  Heathcote,  Maclin  came,  and  this  I 
do  say:  places  are  like  folks — if  their  constitutions  are  all 
right,  they  don't  take  disease.  Maclin  was  a  disease,  and  we 
caught  him!  He  settled  on  us  and  we  hadn't  vim  enough  to 
know  and  understand  what  he  was.  If  it  hadn't  been  Maclin 
it  would  have  been  another.  As  things  are  I  do  feel  that 
Maclin  has  cleared  our  systems!  The  folks  were  wakened 
by  him  as  nothing  in  the  world  could  have  wakened  them." 

Peter  was  not  listening,  he  was  thinking  aloud. 

"All  our  years  wasted!  We  felt  so  sure  that  we  was  capa- 
ble that  we  just  let  folks  fall  into  the  hands  of  that  evil  man. 
Think  of  anything,  bearing  the  image  of  God  taking  advan- 
tage of  simple,  honest  people  and  letting  them  into  what  he 
did!" 


254  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"I  never  did  think  Maclin  was  in  the  image  of  God,  Peter. 
All  God's  children  ain't  the  spitting  image  of  Him.  And 
Maclin  certainly  did  us  a  good  turn  when  he  found  iron  on  the 
Point.  The  iron's  here — if  he  ain't!" 

"He  meant  to  turn  that  and  his  damned  inventions  against 
us.  Betray  us  to  an  enemy!  And  us  just  sitting  and  letting 
him  do  it!" 

"Well,  he  didn't  do  it!"  Polly  snapped.  "And  it  seems 
like  God  is  giving  us  another  chance;  same  as  He  is  the  world." 

Peter  got  up  and  stumped  noisily  about  the  kitchen  much 
to  Ginger's  surprise  and  discomfort. 

"We're  old,  Polly,"  he  muttered;  "the  heart's  taken  out 
of  us.  We  led  'em  astray  because  we  didn't  lead  'em  right." 

"  I'm  not  old."  Polly  looked  comically  defiant.  "  And  my 
heart's  where  it  belongs  and  on  the  job.  It's  shame  to  us, 
Peter,  if  we  don't  use  every  scrap  that's  left  of  us  to  undo  the 
failings  of  the  past." 

"And  that  night!"  Peter  groaned,  recalling  the  night  of 
Maclin's  arrest.  "That's  what  comes  of  being  false  to  yer 
trust.  Terrible,  terrible!  Twombley  standing  over  Maclin 
with  his  gun  after  finding  him  flashing  lights  to  God  knows 
who,  and  then  those  government  men  hauling  things  out  of 
his  bags — why,  Polly,  in  the  middle  of  some  black  nights  I 
get  to  seeing  the  look  on  Maclin's  face  when  he  was  caught!" 

"Now,  brother,  do  be  sensible  and  wipe  the  sweat  off  yer 
forehead.  This  room  is  stifling.  Can't  you  see,  Peter,  that 
at  a  time  like  that  the  Lord  had  to  use  what  He  had,  and 
there  was  only  us  to  use?  Better  Twombley's  gun  than 
Maclin's,  and  you  know,  full  well,  they  found  two  ugly  look- 
ing guns  in  Maclin's  bag  all  packed  with  papers  and  pictures 
of  the  mines  and  bits  of  our  own  rock — what  showed  iron. 
Peter,  I  ain't  a  bloodthirsty  woman  and  the  Lord  knows  I 
don't  hunger  for  my  fellow's  vitals,  but  I'm  willing  to  give 
Maclin  up  to  a  righteous  God.  The  Lord  knows  we  couldn't 
deal  with  the  like  of  him." 

"But,  Polly" — poor  Peter's  humanity  had  received  a 
terrible  jog — "the  look  on  Maclin's  face — when  he  was 
caught!" 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  255 

"Well!  he  ought  to  have  had  a  look!"  Polly  snapped. 
"Several  of  us  gave  him  looks.  I  remember  that  the  Point 
men  looked  just  as  if  it  was  resurrection  day.  They  stiffened 
up  and  /  say,  Peter  Heathcote,  their  backs  ain't  slumped  yet 
— oh !  if  only  we  could  keep  them  stiff!  It  was  an  awful  big 
thing  to  happen  to  a  little  place  like  the  Forest.  It's  terrible 
suggestive!" 

But  Peter  could  not  be  diverted. 

"They  were  fearful  rough  with  him — he,  a  trapped  crea- 
ture, Polly!  I  always  feel  as  if  one  oughtn't  to  harry  a  trapped 
thing.  That's  not  God's  way.  It  was  all  my  fault!  What 
was  I  a  magistrate  for — and  just  standing  by — staring?" 

"Well,  he  should  have  held  still — he  put  up  fight.  Brother, 
you  make  me  indignant." 

"They  mauled  him,  Polly,  mauled  him.  And  they  took 
him — to  what  ?" 

Polly  got  up. 

"Peter,"  she  said,  "you're  a  sick  man  or  you  wouldn't  be 
such  a  fool.  I  always  did  hold  that  your  easy-going  ways 
might  lead  you  into  mush  instead  of  clear  vision,  and  it  cer- 
tainly looks  as  if  I  was  right.  What  you  need  is  a  good 
spring  tonic  and  more  faith  in  God.  Maclin  was  leading  us 
into — what  ?  Hasn't  he  sent  the  old  doctor's  boy  into — what  ? 
The  Almighty  has  got  all  sorts  to  deal  with — and  he's  got 
Maclin,  but  we've  got  what's  left.  Peter,  I  put  it  up  to  you 
— what  are  we  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"What  can  we  do?"  Peter  placed  his  two  hands  on  his 
wide-spread  knees — for  he  had  dropped  exhausted  into  his 
chair.  "Has  any  one  heard  of  Larry?" 

This  sudden  question  roused  Aunt  Polly;  she  had  hoped  it 
would  not  be  asked. 

"Yes,  Peter.     Twombley  has,"  she  faltered. 

" Where  is  he?"     Peter's  mouth  gaped. 

"The  letter  said  that  when  he  came  back  we'd  be  proud  of 
him  and" — Polly  choked — "he  begged  our  pardons — for 
Maclin.  He's  gone  to  that  war — over  there.  He  said  it 
was  all  he  could  do — with  himself,  to  prove  against  Mac- 
lin." 


256  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

A  silence  fell  in  the  warm,  sunny  room.  Then  Polly  spoke 
with  a  catch  in  her  voice: 

"Twombley  and  Peneluna  hold  that  we  better  not  tell 
Mary-Clare.  Better  give  Larry  a  chance  to  do  his  proving — 
before  we  get  any  hopes  or  fears  to  acting  up." 

"I  guess  that's  sensible,"  Peter  nodded,  "he  mightn't  do 
it,  you  know." 

Polly  was  watching  her  brother.  She  saw  the  dejection 
dropping  from  his  face  like  a  mask;  the  hypnotism  of  fear  and 
repulsion  was  losing  its  hold. 

"It's  powerful  hot  here!"  Peter  muttered,  wiping  his  face. 
"And  what  in  thunder  ails  that  dog?" 

Ginger  was  certainly  acting  queer.  He  was  circling 
around,  sniffing,  sniffing,  his  nose  in  the  air,  his  tail  wagging. 
He  edged  over  to  the  door  and  smelt  at  the  crack. 

"Fits?"  Peter  looked  concerned.  But  Polly  had  an  in- 
spiration. 

"I  believe,  Peter,"  she  said  solemnly,  "Ginger  smells — 
spring!  I  thought  I  did  myself  as  I  came  along.  There  were 
fluffy  green  edges  by  the  water.  I  do  love  edges,  Peter! 
Let's  open  the  door  wide,  brother.  We  get  so  used  to  winter, 
and  live  so  close,  that  sometimes  we  don't  know  spring  is 
near.  But  it  is,  Peter,  it  is  always  on  the  edge  of  winter  and 
God  has  made  dogs  terrible  knowing.  See!  There,  now, 
Ginger  old  fellow,  what's  the  matter?" 

Polly  flung  the  door  open  and  Ginger  gave  a  glad  cry  and 
leaped  out.  A  soft  breath  of  air  touched  the  two  gentle  old 
people  in  the  doorway  and  a  fragrance  of  young,  edgy  things 
thrilled  them. 

"Peter  dear,  spring  is  here!"  Polly  said  this  like  a  prayer. 

"Spring!"  Peter's  voice  echoed  the  sound.  Then  he  turned 
to  the  closet  for  his  coat  and  hat. 

"Where  you  going,  brother?" 

The  big  bulky  figure,  ready  for  a  new  adventure,  turned  at 
the  door. 

"Just  going  to  the  Point  and  stand  by!  We  must  take 
care  of  the  old  doc's  leavings.  The  iron,  that  boy  of  his,  and 
— the  rest.  Come  on,  Ginger." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  257 

Polly  watched  the  two  pass  from  sight  and  then  she  read- 
justed her  spectacles  to  the  far-off  angle. 

And  while  this  was  occurring  at  the  inn  there  was  a  tap  on 
che  door  of  the  yellow  house,  and  with  its  welcoming  charac- 
teristic in  full  play,  the  door  swung  in,  leaving  a  tall  woman 
on  the  threshold  flushed  and  apologetic. 

"I  never  saw  such  a  responsive  door!"  she  said.  "I  really 
knocked  very  gently.  Please  tell  me  how  far  it  is  to  the 
inn?" 

Mary-Clare,  her  little  group  of  children  about  her,  looked 
up  and  smiled.  The  smile  and  the  eyes  made  the  stranger's 
breath  come  a  bit  quicker. 

"Just  three  miles  to  the  south."  Mary-Clare  came  close. 
"You  are  walking?  I  will  send  my  little  girl  with  you. 
Noreen?" 

But  Jan-an  was  holding  Noreen  back. 

"She's  one  of  them  other  children  of  Eve!"  she  cautioned. 
"Don't  forget  the  other  one!" 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  the  stranger  was  speaking.  "But 
may  I  rest  here  for  a  moment?  These  children — is  it  a 
school." 

"A  queer  one,  I'm  afraid.  We're  all  teachers,  all  pupils 
— even  the  dogs." 

Mary-Clare  looked  at  her  small  group. 

"One  has  to  do  something,  you  know,"  she  said.  "Some- 
thing to  help." 

"Yes.  And  will  you  send  the  children  away  for  a  moment  ? 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

Mary-Clare's  face  went  white.  Since  Maclin's  exposure 
the  girl  knew  a  spiritual  fear  that  never  before  had  troubled 
her.  Maclin  and  Larry!  Doubt,  uncertainty — they  had 
done  their  worst  for  Mary-Clare. 

When  the  children  were  gone  the  stranger  leaned  forward 
and  said  quietly: 

"I  am  Mrs.  Dana — I  am  here  on  government  business. 
There,  my  dear  Mrs.  Rivers,  please  do  not  be  alarmed — I 
come  as  your  friend;  the  friend  of  King's  Forest;  it  is  on  the 
map,  you  know."  . 


258  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

The  tears  stood  in  Mary-Clare's  wide  eyes,  her  lips  trem- 
bled. 

"I  conscript  you!"  Mrs.  Dana  leaned  a  little  further  toward 
Mary-Clare  and  took  her  hands.  "I  was  directed  to  you, 
Mrs.  Rivers.  You  must  help  me  do  away  with  a  wrong  im- 
pression of  the  Forest.  Together  we  will  tell  a  story  to  the 
outside  world  that  will  change  a  great  many  things.  We  will 
tell  the  truth  and  set  the  Forest  free  from  suspicion." 

"Oh!  can  we?  Why,  that  would  be  the  most  splendid 
thing.  We're  all  so — so  frightened." 

"Yes.  I  know.  See,  I  have  my  credentials" — Mrs.  Dana 
took  a  notebook  from  her  bag.  "The  mines — well,  all  the 
danger  there  is  destroyed.  The  mines  are  cleaned  out." 
She  was  reading  from  her  notes. 

"Yes."     Mary-Clare  was  impressed. 

"And  there's  iron  on  the  Point — we  must  get  at  that — 
you  own  the  Point?" 

"No;  I  gave  it  to  my  husband."  The  words  were  whis- 
pered. "And  he  sold  it  to  a  Mr.  Northrup."  There  was  no 
holding  back  in  King's  Forest  these  days. 

"I  see.  Well,  we  must  get  this  Mr.  Northrup  busy,  then. 
Where  is  he?" 

Mrs.  Dana  tucked  the  book  away  and  her  eyes  looked 
kindly  into  Mary-Clare's. 

"I  do  not  know.  He  went  to  his — to  the  city — New 
York." 

"And  you  have  never  heard  from  him?" 

"No." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Rivers,  I  am  your  friend  and  the  friend  of  the 
Forest.  Together,  we  ought  to  be  able  to  do  it  a  good  turn. 
And  now,  if  you  are  willing,  I  would  love  to  borrow  your 
little  girl." 

On  the  lake  road  Noreen,  after  a  few  skirmishes,  succumbed 
to  one  of  her  sudden  likings — she  abandoned  herself  to  Mrs. 
Dana's  charm.  With  her  head  coquettishly  set  slantwise 
she  fixed  her  grave  eyes — they  were  very  like  her  mother's — 
on  Mrs.  Dana's  face. 

"I  like  the  look  of  you,"  she  confided  softly. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  259 

"I'm  glad.  I  like  the  look  of  you  very  much,  little 
Noreen." 

"Do  you  know  any  stories  or  songs?"  Noreen  had  her 
private  test. 

"I  used  to,  but  it  has  been  a  long  while  since  I  thought 
about  them.  Do  you  know  any,  Noreen?" 

"Oh!  many.  My  man  taught  me.  He  taught  me  to  be 
unafraid,  too." 

"Your  man,  little  girl?"  Mrs.  Dana  turned  her  eyes  away. 

"Yes'm.  Jan-an,  she's  a  bit  queer,  you  know,  Jan-an  says 
the  ghost-wind  brought  him.  He  only  stayed  a  little  while, 
but  things  aren't  ever  going  to  be  the  same  again.  No'm, 
not  ever!  He  even  liked  Jan-an,  and  most  folks  don't — at 
first.  His  name  is  Mr.  Northrup,  but  Jan-an  and  I  call  him 
The  Man." 

"And  he  sang  for  you?" 

"Yes'm.  We  sang  together,  marching  along — this  way!" 
Noreen  swung  the  hand  that  held  hers.  "Do  you  know — 
'Green Jacket,  Redcap'?"  she  asked. 

"I  used  to.     It  goes  something  like  this — doesn't  it? 

"  Up  the  airy  mountain 
Down  the  rustly  glen 


I  have  forgotten  the  rest."    Mrs.  Dana  closed  her  eyes. 

"Oh!  that's  kingdiferous,"  Noreen  laughed  with  delight. 
"I'll  sing  the  rest,  then  we'll  sing  together: 

"We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men. 
Wee  folk,  good  folk 

Trooping  all  together, 
Green  jacket,  red  cap 

And  white  owl's  feather." 

They  were  keeping  step  and  singing,  rather  brokenly,  for 
Noreen  was  thinking  of  her  man  and  Mrs.  Dana  seemed 
searching,  in  a  blur  of  moving  men  upon  a  weary  road,  for  a. 
boy — a  very  little  boy.x 


260  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"Now,  then,"  Noreen  insisted,  "we  can  sing  it  betterer  this 
time. 

"Green  jacket,  red  cap 

And  white  owl's  feather." 

Suddenly  Noreen  stopped. 

"Your  face  looks  funny,"  she  said.  "Your  lips  are  laugh- 
ing, but  your  eyes — is  it  the  sun  in  your  eyes?" 

Mrs.  Dana  bent  until  her  head  was  close  to  Noreen's. 

"Little  girl,  little  Noreen,"  she  said,  "that  is  it — the  sun 
is  in  my  eyes." 

"There's  the  inn!"  Noreen  was  uncomfortable.  Things 
were  not  turning  out  quite  as  gaily  as  she  hoped.  Things 
did  not,  any  more. 

"Shall  I  go  right  to  the  door  with  you?"  she  asked. 

"No.     I  want  to  go  alone.     Good-bye,  Noreen." 

"I  hope  you'll  stay  a  long  time!"  Noreen  paused  on  the 
road. 

"Why,  dear?" 

"  Because  Motherly  liked  you,  and  I  like  you.    Good-bye." 

And  Mrs.  Dana  stayed  a  long  time,  though  after  the  first 
week  her  sojourn  was  marked  by  incidents,  not  hours. 

"Seems  like  the  days  of  the  creation,"  Peter  confided  to 
Twombley.  "Let  there  be  light — there  was  light!  Get  the 
Forest  to  work — and  the  Forest  gets  busy!  Heard  the  church 
is  going  to  be  opened — and  a  school.  Queer,  Twombley, 
how  her  being  a  woman  and  the  easy  sort,  too,  doesn't  seem 
to  stop  her  none." 

Twombley  shifted  in  his  chair — the  two  men  were  sitting 
in  the  spring  sunshine  by  Twombley's  door. 

"The  Government's  behind  her!"  he  muttered  confidently. 
"And,  Heathcote,  I  ain't  monkeying  with  the  Government. 
Since  that  Maclin  night — anything  the  Government  asks  of 
me,  I  hold  up  my  hands." 

"Yes,  I  reckon  that's  safest."  Peter  was  uplifted,  but 
cautious. 

"She's  set  Peneluna  to  painting  all  the  houses — yeller," 
Twombley  rambled  on,  the  smell  of  fresh  paint  filling  his  nos- 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  261 

trils.  "And  you  know  what  Peneluna  is  when  she  gets  a 
start.  Colour's  mighty  satisfying,  Peneluna  says;  but  I 
guess  there's  more  in  it  than  just  colour.  The  Pointers  get 
touchy  about  dirt,  and  creepy  insects  showing  up  on  the 
'tarnal  paint  that's  slushed  everywhere." 

"Mighty  queer  doings!"  Heathcote  agreed. 

"The  women  are  plumb  crazy  over  this  government 
woman,"  Twombley  went  on,  "and  the  children  lap  out  of 
her  hand.  She  and  Mary-Clare  are  together  early  and  late. 
Thick  as  corn  mush." 

Peter  drew  his  chair  closer. 

"Her  and  Mary-Clare  is  writing  up  the  doings  of  the 
Forest,"  he  whispered.  "Writing  things  alias  makes  me 
nervous.  What's  writ — is  fixed." 

"Gosh!  Heathcote;  it's  like  the  Judgment  Day  and  no 
place  to  hide  in!" 

"That's  about  it,  Twombley.     No  place  to  hide  in." 

And  then  after  weeks  of  strenuous  effort  Mrs.  Dana  went 
away  as  suddenly  as  she  had  come.  She  simply  disappeared! 
But  there  was  a  peculiar  sense  of  waiting  in  the  Forest  and  a 
going  on  with  what  had  been  begun.  The  momentum  carried 
the  people  along.  The  church  was  repaired,  a  school  house 
started,  the  Point  cleaned. 

*  *  ***** 

The  summer  passed,  another  winter — not  so  cruel  as  the 
last — and  the  spring  came,  less  violently. 

******* 

It  was  early  summer  when  another  event  shook  the  none- 
too-steady  Forest.  Larry  came  home! 

Jan-an  discovered  him  sitting  on  a  mossy  rock,  his  back 
against  a  tree.  The  girl  staggered  away  from  him — she 
thought  she  saw  a  vision. 

"It  is — you,  ain't  it?"  she  gasped. 

"What's  left  of  me — yes."  There  was  a  strange  new  note 
in  Rivers's  voice. 

Jan-an's  horror-filled  eyes  took  in  the  significance  of  the 
words. 

"Where's — the  rest  of  you?"  she  gasped. 


262  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Larry  touched  the  pinned-up  leg  of  his  trousers. 

"I  paid  a  debt  with  the  rest,"  he  said,  and  there  was  that 
in  his  voice  that  brought  Jan-an  closer  to  him. 

"Where  yer  bound  for?"  she  asked,  her  dull  face  quivering. 

"  I  don't  know.  A  fellow  gave  me  a  lift  and  dropped  me — 
here." 

"You  come  along  home!"  Jan-an  bent  and  half  lifted 
Larry.  "Lean  on  me.  There,  now,  lean  heavy  and  take  it 
easy." 

Mary-Clare  was  sitting  in  the  living-room,  sewing  and 
singing,  when  the  sound  of  steps  startled  her.  She  looked 
up,  then  her  face  changed  as  a  dying  face  does. 

"Larry!"  she  faltered.  She  was  utterly  unprepared. 
She  had  been  kept  in  ignorance  of  the  little  that  others  knew. 

"  I — I'm  played  out — but  I  can  go  on."  Larry's  voice  was 
husky  and  he  drooped  against  Jan-an.  Then  Mary-Clare 
came  forward,  her  arms  opened  wide,  a  radiance  breaking 
over  her  cold  white  face. 

"You  have  come — home,  Larry!  Home.  Your  father's 
home." 

And  then  Larry's  head  rested  on  her  shoulder;  her  arm* 
upheld  him,  for  the  crutch  clattered  to  the  floor. 

"My  father's  home,"  he  repeated  like  a  hurt  child — "that's 
it — my  father's  home." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

BUT  beyond  that  exalted  moment  stretched  the  plain, 
drear  days.  Days  holding  subtle  danger  and  mar- 
vellous revelations. 

Larry,  with  his  superficial  gripping  of  surface  things,  grew 
.nerry  and  childishly  happy.  He  had  paid  a  debt,  God  knew. 
Shocked  by  the  Maclin  exposure,  he  had  been  roused  to  de- 
cency and  purpose  as  he  had  never  been  before.  He  felt 
now  that  he  had  redeemed  the  past,  and  Mary-Clare's  gentle- 
ness and  kindness  meant  but  one  thing  to  Rivers.  And  he 
-vvanted  that  thing.  His  own  partial  regeneration  had  been 
evolved  through  hours  of  remorse  and  contrition.  Alone, 
under  strange  skies  and  during  long,  danger-filled  nights,  he 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  poor,  shivering  soul,  and  it  had 
brought  him  low  in  fear,  then  high  in  hope. 

"Perhaps,  if  I  pay  and  pay" — he  had  pleaded  with  the  sad 
thing — "I  can  win  out  yet!" 

And  sitting  in  the  warm,  sunny  room  of  the  yellow  house, 
Larry  began  to  believe  he  had!  It  was  always  so  easy  for 
him  to  see  one  small  spot. 

'At  the  first  he  was  a  hero,  and  the  Forest  paid  homage  to 
him;  listened  at  his  shrine  and  fed  his  reviving  ego.  But 
heroes  cloy  the  taste,  in  time,  and  the  most  thrilling  tales 
wax  dull  when  they  are  worn  to  shreds.  More  and  more 
Larry  grew  to  depend  upon  Mary-Clare  and  Noreen  for 
company  and  upon  Jan-an  for  a  never-failing  listener  to  his 
tales. 

Noreen,  just  now,  puzzled  Mary-Clare.  The  child's  old 
aversion  to  her  father  seemed  to  have  passed  utterly  from 
her  thought.  She  was  devoted  to  him;  touched  his  maimed 
body  reverently,  and  wooed  him  from  the  sad  moments  that 
presently  began  to  overpower  him. 

263 


264  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

She  assumed  an  old  and  protecting  manner  toward  him 
that  would  have  been  amusing  had  it  not  been  so  tragically 
pathetic. 

Every  afternoon  Larry  took  a  nap,  sitting  in  an  old 
kitchen  rocker.  Poised  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  her  father's 
head  upon  her  tiny  shoulder,  Noreen  sang  him  to  sleep. 

"You're  my  baby,  daddy-linkum,  and  I'm  your  motherly. 
Come,  shut  your  eyes,  and  lall  a  leep!" 

And  Larry  would  sleep,  often  to  awake  with  an  unwhole- 
some merriment  that  frightened  Mary-Clare. 

One  late  summer  afternoon  she  was  sitting  with  him  by 
the  open  door.  The  beautiful  hills  opposite  were  still  rich 
with  flowers  and  green  bushes.  Suddenly  Larry  said: 

"It's  great,  this  being  home!" 

"I'm  glad  home  was  here  for  you  to  come  to,  Larry." 
Mary-Clare  felt  her  heart  beat  quicker — not  with  love,  but 
the  growing  fear. 

"Are  you,  honest?" 

"Yes,  Larry.     Honest." 

"I  wonder."  It  was  the  old  voice  now.  "When  I  lay 
out  there,  and  crawled  along " 

"Please,  Larry,  we  have  agreed  not  to  talk  of  that!" 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  even  then,  while  I  was  crawling,  I  got 
to  thinking  what  I  was  crawling  back  to — and  counting  the 
chances  and  whether  it  was  worth  while." 

"Please,  Larry!" 

"All  right!"  Then,  in  the  new  voice:  "You're  beautiful, 
Mary-Clare.  Sometimes,  sitting  here,  I  get  to  wondering  if 
I  really  ever  saw  you  before.  Second  sight,  you  know." 

"Yes,  second  sight,  Larry." 

"And  Noreen — she  is  mine,  Mary-Clare."  This  was 
flung  out  defiantly. 

"  Part  yours.     Yes,  Larry." 

"She's  a  great  kid.  Old  as  the  hills  and  then  again — a 
baby-thing." 

"We  must  not  strain  her,  Larry,  we  cannot  afford  to  put 
too  heavy  a  load  on  her.  She  would  bear  it  until  she  drop- 
ped." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  265 

"Don't  get  talking  booky,  Mary-Clare.  You  don't  as 
much  as  you  once  did."  A  pause,  then  hardly  above  a 
whisper:  "Do  you  go  to  the  cabin  in  the  woods  now, 
Mary-Clare?" 

"I  haven't  been  there  for  a  long  while,  Larry."  Mary- 
Clare's  hands  clutched  each  other  until  the  bones  ached. 
"I'm  sorry,  Mary-Clare,  God  knows  I  am,  for  what  I  did 
up  there.  It  was  the  note  as  drove  me  mad.  Across — over 
there,  I  used  to  read  that  note,  you  and  he  were  queer 
lots." 

"Larry,  I  will  not  talk  about  that — ever!" 
"You  can't  forgive?" 
"  I  have  forgiven  long  ago." 

"Nothing  happened  between  you  and  him,  Mary-Clare. 
You're  great  stuff.  Great!  And  so  is  he." 

A  thin,  blue-veined  hand  stole  out  and  rested  on  Mary- 
Clare's  head  and  Mary-Clare  looked  down  at  the  empty  place 
where  Larry's  strong  right  leg  should  have  been.  A  divine 
pity  stirred  her,  but  she  knew  now,  as  always,  that  Larry  did 
not  crave  pity;  sympathy;  and  the  awful  Truth  upheld  Mary- 
Clare  in  her  weak  moment.  She  would  never  again  fail  her- 
self or  him  by  misunderstanding. 

"When  I'm  well,  Mary-Clare,  you'll  be  everything  to 
me,  won't  you?  We'll  begin  again.  You,  me,  and  little 
Noreen.  You  are  lovely,  girl!  The  lights  in  your  hair 

dance,  your  neck  is  white,  and " 

The  heart  of  Mary-Clare  seemed  to  stop  as  the  groping 
fingers  touched  her. 

"Look  at  me,  Mary-Clare!" 

There  was  the  tone  of  the  conqueror  in  the  words — Larry 
laughed.  Then  Mary-Clare  looked  at  him!  Long  and  un- 
falteringly she  let  her  eyes  meet  his,  and  there  was  that  in 
them  that  no  man  misunderstands. 

"You  mean  you  do  not  care?"  Larry's  voice  shook  like 
a  frightened  child's;  "that  you'll  never  care?" 

"I  care  tremendously,  Larry,  and  I  will  do  my  best.  But 
you  must  not  ask  for  more." 

God!  and  I  crawled  back  for  this!"    The   words 


266  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

ended  in  a  sob;  "for  this!     I  thought  I  could  pay    but  I 
cannot — ever,  ever!" 

And  in  the  distant  city  Helen  Northrup  waited  for  her 
son.  There  had  been  a  cable — then  the  long  silence.  He  was 
on  the  way,  that  was  all  she  knew. 

In  the  work-room  Helen  tried  to  keep  to  the  routine  of  hei 
days.  Her  work  had  saved  her;  strengthened  her.  Her 
contact  with  people  had  given  her  vision  and  sympathy; 
She  was  marvellously  changed,  but  of  that  she  took  little 
heed. 

And  then  Northrup  came,  unannounced.  He  stood  in 
the  doorway  of  the  room  where  his  mother  sat  bent  upon  her 
task  on  the  desk  before  her.  For  a  moment  he  hardly  knew 
her.  He  had  feared  to  find  her  broken,  crushed  beyond  the 
hope  of  health  and  joy.  He  had  counted  that  possibility 
among  the  things  that  his  experience  had  cost  him.  A  wave 
of  relief,  surprise,  and  joy  swept  over  him  now. 

"Mother!" 

Helen  paused — her  pen  held  lightly — then  she  rose  and 
came  toward  him.  Her  face  Northrup  was  never  to  forget. 
So  might  a  face  look  that  welcomed  the  dead  back  to  life. 
Just  for  one,  poor  human  moment,  they  could  not  speak, 
they  simply  clung  close.  After  that,  life  caught  them  in  its 
common  current. 

The  afternoon,  warm  and  sunny,  made  it  possible  for  the 
windows  to  be  open  wide;  there  were  flowers  blooming  in  a 
window-box  and  a  cool  breeze,  now  and  again,  drew  the  white 
curtains  out,  then  released  them  with  a  little  sighing  sound. 
The  peacefulness  and  security  stirred  Northrup's  imagina- 
tion. 

"It  doesn't  seem  possible,  you  know!"  he  said. 

"Being  home,  dear?"  Helen  watched  him.  Every  new 
line  of  his  fine  brown  face  made  her  lips  firmer. 

"Yes.  I'd  given  up  hope,  and  then  when  hope  grew  again 
I  was  afraid  to  crawl  back.  You'll  laugh,  but  I  was  afraid 
to  come  home  and  find  things  just  the  same!  I  couldn't  have 
stood  it,  after  what  I  learned.  I  would  have  felt  like  a  ghost. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  267 

A  lot  of  fellows  feel  this  way.  It's  all  a  mistake  for  our  home 
folks  to  think  they're  doing  the  best  for  us  by  trying  to  fool 
us  into  forgetting." 

"Brace,  we've  tried,  all  of  us,  to  be  worthy  of  you  boys. 
Even  they  who  attempt  the  thing  you  mention  are  doing  it 
for  the  best.  Often  it  is  the  hardest  way." 

They  were  both  thinking  of  Kathryn.  Monstrous  as  it 
might  seem,  Brace  recalled  her  as  she  looked  that  day — 
pulling  the  shades  of  the  automobile  down!  That  ugly 
doubt  had  haunted  him  many  times. 

Helen  was  half  sick  with  fear  of  what  would  occur  when 
Brace  saw  Kathryn. 

"I  ought  not  keep  you,  son,"  she  said  weakly.  "You 
ought  to  go  to  Kathryn.  No  filial  duty  toward  me,  dear! 
I'm  a  terribly  self-sufficient  woman." 

"Bully!  And  that's  why  I  want  to  have  dinner  with  you 
alone.  I've  got  used  to  the  self-sufficient  woman — I  like 
her." 

It  was  long  after  eight  o'clock,  that  first  evening,  when 
Northrup  left  his  mother's  house. 

So  powerfully  hypnotic  is  memory  that  as  he  walked  along 
in  the  bland  summer  night  he  shivered  and  recalled  the 
snow-storm  that  blotted  him  out  after  his  last  interview  with 
Kathryn.  With  all  earnestness  he  had  prepared  himself  for 
this  hour.  He  was  ready  to  take  up  his  life  and  live  it  well — 
only  so  could  he  justify  what  he  had  endured.  His  starved 
senses,  too,  rose  to  reinforce  him.  He  craved  the  beauty, 
sweetness,  and  tenderness — though  he  was  half  afraid  of 
them.  They  had  so  long  been  eliminated  from  his  rugged  ex- 
istence that  he  wondered  how  he  was  again  to  take  them  as 
his  common  fare. 

He  paused  before  touching  the  bell  at  the  Morris  house. 
Again  that  hypnotic  shiver  ran  over  him;  but  to  his  touch 
on  the  bell  there  was  immediate  response. 

"Will  you  wait,  sir,  in  the  reception-room?"  The  trim 
maid  looked  flurried.  "I  will  tell  Miss  Kathryn  at  once." 

Northrup  sat  down  in  the  dim  room,  fragrant  with  flowers, 
and  a  sense  of  peace  overcame  his  doubts. 


268  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

Now  the  Morris  house  was  curiously  constructed.  The 
main  stairway  and  a  stairway  leading  to  a  side  entrance 
converged  at  the  second  landing,  thus  making  it  possible 
for  any  one  to  leave  the  house  more  privately,  should  he  so 
desire,  than  by  the  more  formal  way. 

After  leaving  Northrup  in  the  reception-room,  the  maid  was 
stopped  by  Miss  Anna  Morris  somewhere  in  the  hall.  A 
hurried  whispered  conversation  ensued  and  made  possible 
what  dramatically  followed. 

A  door  above  opened — the  library  door — and  it  seemed  to 
set  free  Kathryn's  nervous,  metallic  laugh  and  Sandy  Ar- 
nold's hard,  indignant  words: 

"What's  the  hurry?  I  guess  I  understand.'*  Almost  it 
seemed  as  if  the  girl  were  pushing  the  man  before  her.  "I 
was  good  enough  to  pass  the  time  with;  pay  for  your  fun 
while  you  weighed  the  chances." 

"Please,  Sandy,  you  are  cruel."     Kathryn  was  pleading. 

"Cruel  be  damned!  And  what  are  you?  I  want  you — 
you've  told  me  that  you  loved  me — what's  the  big  idea?" 

"Oh!  Sandy,  do  lower  your  voice.  Aunt  Anna  will  think 
the  servants  are  quarrelling." 

"All  right."  Sandy's  voice  sank  a  degree.  "But  I'm 

going  to  put  this  to  you  square "  The  two  above  had 

come  to  the  dividing  stairways. 

"What  in  thunder!"  Sandy  gave  a  coarse  laugh.  "Keep- 
ing to  the  servant  notion,  eh  ?  Want  me  to  go  out  the  side 
door?  Why?" 

"Oh!  Sandy,  you  won't  mind? — I  have  a  reason,  I'll  tell 
you  some  day." 

There  was  a  pause,  a  scuffle.     Then: 

"Sandy,  you  are  hurting  me!" 

"All  right,  don't  struggle  then.  Listen.  I'm  going  away 
for  two  weeks.  You  promise  if  Northrup  comes  home,  dur- 
ing that  time,  to  tell  him?" 

"Yes;  yes,  dear,"  the  words  came  pantingly  smothered. 
"All  right,  and  if  you  don't,  I  will!  I'm  not  the  kind  to  see 
a  woman  sacrifice  herself  for  duty.  By  the  Lord !  North- 
rup shall  know  from  you — or  me!  Now  kiss  me!" 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  269 

There  were  the  hurried  steps — down  the  side  stairs! 
Then  flying  ones  to  the  library — the  maid  was  on  her  way 
with  her  message — but  Northrup  dashed  past  her,  nearly 
knocking  her  over. 

He  strode  heavily  to  the  library  door,  which  had  been 
left  open,  and  stood  there.  A  devil  rose  in  him  as  he  gazed 
at  the  girl,  a  bit  dishevelled,  but  lovely  beyond  words. 

For  a  moment,  smiling  and  cruel,  he  thought  he  would 
let  her  incriminate  herself;  he  would  humiliate  her  and  then 
fling  her  oflF.  But  this  all  passed  like  a  blinding  shock. 

Kathryn  had  turned  at  his  approach.  She  stood  at  bay. 
He  frightened  her.  Had  he  heard  ?  Or  was  it  mad  passion 
that  held  him  ?  Had  he  just  come  to  the  house  refusing  to 
be  announced  ? 

"Brace!  Brace!"  she  cried,  her  lovely  eyes  widening. 
"You  have  come." 

Kathryn  stepped  slowly  forward,  her  arms  outstretched. 
She  looked  as  a  captive  maiden  might  before  the  conqueror 
whose  slave  she  was  willing  to  become.  As  she  advanced 
Northrup  drew  back.  He  reached  a  chair  and  gripped  it. 
Then  he  said  quietly: 

"You  see,  I  happened  to  hear  you  and  Arnold." 

Kathryn's  face  went  deadly  white. 

"I  had  to  tell  him  something,  Brace;  you  know  how  Sandy 
is — I  knew  I  could  explain  to  you;  you  would  understand." 
The  pitiful,  futile  words  and  tone  did  not  reach  Northrup 
with  appeal. 

"You  can  explain,"  he  said  harshly,  "and  I  think  I  will 
understand,  but  I  want  the  explanation  to  come  in  my  way, 
if  you  please.  Just  answer  my  questions.  Have  you  ever 
told  Arnold — what  he  just  made  you  promise  to  tell  me?" 

Kathryn  stood  still,  breathing  hard. 

"Yes  or  no!" 

The  girl  was  being  dragged  to  a  merciless  bar  of  judgment. 
She  realized  it  and  all  her  foolish  defences  fell;  all  but  that 
power  of  hers  to  leap  to  some  sort  of  safety.  There  still  was 
Arnold ! 

"Yes,"  she  said  gaspingly. 


270  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"You  mean  you  love  Arnold;  that  only  duty  held  you 
to  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  by  God!"  Northrup  flung  his  head  back  and 
laughed — "and  after  all  I  have  been  fearing,  too!" 

To  her  dying  day  Kathryn  never  knew  what  he  meant  by 
those  words.  There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  Northrup 
spoke  again: 

"I  don't  think  there  is  anything  more  to  say.  Shall  I 
take  the  side  entrance?" 

Outside,  the  summer  night  was  growing  sultry;  a  sound  of 
thunder  broke  the  heavy  quiet  of  the  dark  street — it  brought 
back  memories  that  were  evil  things  to  remember  just  then. 

"Good  God!"  Northrup  thought,  "we're  coming  back  to 
all  kinds  of  hells." 

He  was  bitter  and  cynical.  He  hardly  took  into  account, 
in  that  hard  moment,  the  feeling  of  release;  all  his  foregone 
conclusions,  his  stern  resolves,  had  been  battered  down. 
He  had  got  his  discharge  with  nothing  to  turn  to. 

In  this  mood  he  reached  home.  More  than  anything  he 
wanted  to  be  by  himself — but  his  mother's  bedroom  door  was 
open  and  he  saw  her  sitting  by  the  window,  watching  the 
flashes  of  heat  lightning. 

He  went  in  and  stood  near  her. 

"I've  about  concluded,"  he  said  harshly,  "that  the  fellows 
who  keep  to  the  herd  are  the  sensible  ones." 

The  words  conveyed  no  meaning  to  Helen  Northrup,  but 
the  tones  did. 

"Sit  down,  dear,"  she  said  calmly.  "If  this  shower 
strikes  us,  I  do  not  want  to  be  alone." 

Northrup  drew  a  chair  to  the  window  and  the  red  flashes 
lighted  his  face  luridly. 

*'  Having  ideals  is  rot.  Dying  for  them,  madness.  Mother, 
it's  all  over  between  Kathryn  and  me!" 

Helen's  own  development  had  done  more  for  her  than  she 
would  ever  realize,  but  from  out  its  strength  and  security 
she  spoke: 

"Brace,  I  am  glad!    Now  you  can  live  your  ideals." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  271 

Northrup  turned  sharply. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said. 

"Oh!  we've  all  been  so  stupid;  so  blind.  Seeing  the  false 
and  calling  it  the  truth.  Being  afraid;  not  daring  to  let  go. 
My  work  has  set  me  free,  son.  Lately  I  have  seen  the  girl 
that  Kathryn  really  is,  looming  dark  over  the  girl  she  made 
us  believe  she  was.  I  have  feared  for  you,  but  now  I  am 
glad.  Brace,  there  are  women  a  man  can  count  on.  Cling 
hold  of  that." 

"Yes,  I  know  that,  of  course." 

"Women  whose  honour  is  as  high  and  clear  as  that  of  the 
best  of  men." 

"Yes,  Mother." 

Helen  looked  at  the  relaxed  form  close  toiler.  She  yearned 
to  confide  fully  in  him,  tell  him  how  she  had  guarded  his 
interests  while  he  fared  afar  from  her.  She  thought  of 
Mary-Clare  and  the  love  and  understanding  that  now  lay 
between  her  and  the  girl  whose  high  honour  could,  indeed, 
be  trusted. 

But  she  realized  that  this  son  of  hers  was  not  the  kind  of 
man  whose  need  could  be  supplied  by  replacing  a  loss  with 
a  possible  gain.  He  had  been  dealt  a  cruel  blow  and  must 
react  from  it  sanely.  The  time  was  not  yet  come  for  the 
telling  of  the  King's  Forest  story. 

Northrup  needed  comfort,  Heaven  knew,  but  it  must  come 
from  within,  not  without. 

At  that  instant  Helen  Northrup  gripped  the  arms  of  her 
chair  and  sent  a  quick  prayer  to  the  God  of  mothers  of 
grown  sons. 

"The  storm  seems  to  be  passing,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Yes,  and  the  air  is  cooler."  Northrup  stood  up  and 
his  face  was  no  longer  hopeless.  "Are  you  going  to  stay  in 
town  all  summer?"  he  asked. 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you,  dear.  As  soon  as  you  get  settled 
I  must  take  a  short  trip.  Business,  you  know.  I  do  enjoy 
the  short  trips,  the  comings  home;  the  feeling  of  moving 
along;  not  being  relegated  to  an  armchair." 

"Mother,  how  did  you  do  it  ?" 


272  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"Oh!  it  was  easy  enough,  once  I  threw  off  my  own  identity. 
Identities  are  so  cramping,  Brace;  full  of  suggestions  and 
fears.  I  took  my  mother's  maiden  name — Helen  Dana. 
After  that,  I  just  flew  ahead." 

"Well,  I  won't  hold  you  back.  You're  too  good  for  that, 
Mother.  I've  kept  the  old  tower  room.  I'm  going  to  try 
to  finish  my  book,  now.  Somehow  I  got  to  thinking  it 
dead;  but  lately  I've  sort  of  heard  it  crying  out  for  me.  I 
hope  the  same  little  elevator  devil  is  on  the  job  yet.  Funny, 
freckled  scamp.  He  kissed  me  when  I  went  away — I 
thought  he  was  going  to  cry.  Queer  how  a  fellow  remembered 
things  like  that  over  there.  The  little  snapshots  were 
fixed  pictures — and  some  rather  big-sized  things  shrank." 

They  bade  each  other  good-night.  Mother  and  son, 
they  looked  marvellously  alike  at  that  moment.  Then: 

"I  declare,  I  almost  forgot  Manly.  How  has  this  all 
struck  him,  Mother?" 

Helen's  face  was  radiant. 

"Gave  up  everything!  His  hard-won  position,  his  late 
comfort  and  ease.  He  will  have  to  begin  again — he  is  where 
he  says  he  belongs — mending  and  patching." 

"He'll  reach  the  top,  Mother.  Manly's  bound  for  the 
top  of  things." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

NORTHRUP  found  his  tower  room  but  little  changed. 
The  dust  lay  upon  it,  and  a  peace  that  had  not  held 
part  during  the  last  days  before  he  went  away 
greeted  him.  More  and  more  as  he  sat  apart  the  truth  of 
things  came  to  him;  he  accepted  the  grim  fact  that  all, 
everything,  is  bound  by  a  chain,  the  links  of  which  must  hold, 
or,  if  they  are  broken,  they  must  be  welded  again  together. 
The  world;  people;  everything  in  time  must  pause  while 
repairs  were  made,  and  he  had  done  his  best  toward  the  mend- 
ing of  a  damaged  world:  toward  righting  his  own  mistakes. 

It  was  slow  work.  Good  God!  how  slow,  and  oh,  the 
suffering! 

He  had  paid  a  high  price  but  he  could  now  look  at  his 
city  without  shame. 

This  was  a  fortifying  thought,  but  a  lonely  one,  and  it 
did  not  lead  to  constructive  work.  The  days  were  listless 
and  erripty. 

Northrup  got  out  his  manuscript — there  was  life  in  it,  he 
made  sure  of  that,  but  it  was  feeble  and  would  require  intel- 
ligent concentration  in  order  to  justify  its  existence. 

But  the  intelligence  and  concentration  were  not  in  his 
power  to  bestow. 

After  a  few  days  he  regarded  his  new  freedom  with  strange 
exhilaration  mingled  with  fear  and  distrust. 

So  much  had  gone  down  in  the  wreck  with  Kathryn.  So 
much  that  was  purely  himself — not  her — that  readjustment 
was  slow.  How  would  it  have  been,  he  wondered,  back  in 
the  King's  Forest  days,  had  he  not  been  upheld  by  a  sense 
of  duty  to  what  was  now  proven  false  and  wrong? 

One  could  err  in  duty,  it  seemed. 

He  was  free!    He  had  not  exacted  freedom!    It  had  been 

273 


274  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

thrust  upon  him  so  brutally,  that  it  had,  for  a  spell,  sent  him 
reeling  into  space. 

Not  being  able  to  resume  his  work,  Northrup  got  to 
thinking  about  King's  Forest  with  concentration,  if  not  intel- 
ligence. 

He  had  purposely  refrained,  while  he  was  away,  from 
dwelling  upon  it  as  a  place  in  which  he  had  some  rights.  He 
used,  occasionally,  to  think  of  Twombley,  sitting  like  a  silent, 
wary  watch-dog,  keeping  an  eye  on  his  interests.  He  had 
heard  of  the  Maclin  tragedy — Helen  Northrup  felt  it  wise 
to  give  him  that  information  while  withholding  much  more; 
that  was,  in  a  way,  public  knowledge. 

Things  were  at  least  safe  now  in  the  Forest,  Northrup 
believed.  This  brought  him  to  the  closer  circle.  He  felt 
a  sudden  homesickness  for  the  inn  and  the  blessed  old  pair. 
A  kind  of  mental  hunger  evolved  from  this  unwholesome 
brooding  that  drove  Northrup,  as  hunger  alone  can,  to  snatch 
whatever  he  could  for  his  growing  desire  to  feed  upon. 

He  shifted  his  thoughts  from  Mary-Clare  and  the  Heath- 
cotes  to  Larry  Rivers.  Where  was  he?  Had  he  kept  his 
part  of  the  bargain  ?  What  had  Mary-Clare  done  with  her 
hard-won  freedom? 

Sitting  alone  under  his  dome  of  changing  lights,  Northrup 
became  a  prey  to  whimsical  fancies  that  amused  while  they 
hurt. 

As  the  lighted  city  rose  above  the  coarser  elements  that 
formed  it,  so  the  woman,  Mary-Clare,  towered  over  other 
women.  Such  women  as  Kathryn!  The  bitterness  of  pain 
lurked  here  as,  unconsciously,  Northrup  went  back  over  the 
wasted  years  of  misplaced  faith. 

The  sweet  human  qualities  he  knew  were  not  lacking  in 
Mary-Clare.  They  were  simply  heightened,  brightened. 

All  this  led  to  but  one  thing. 

Something  was  bound  to  happen,  and  suddenly  Northrup 
decided  to  go  to  King's  Forest! 

Once  this  decision  was  reached  he  realized  that  he  had  been 
travelling  toward  it  since  the  night  of  his  scene  with  Kathryn. 
The  struggle  was  over.  He  was  at  rest,  and  began  cheerfully 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  275 

to  make  preparations.  Of  course,  he  argued,  he  meant  to 
keep  the  spirit,  if  not  the  letter,  of  his  agreement  with  Larry 
Rivers. 

This  was  not  safe  reasoning,  and  he  set  it  aside  impatiently. 

He  waited  a  few  days,  deliberating,  hoping  his  mother 
would  return  from  a  visit  she  was  making  at  Manley's  hos- 
pital in  the  South.  When  at  the  end  of  a  week  no  word  came 
from  her,  he  packed  his  grip  and  set  forth,  on  foot  again, 
for  the  Forest. 

He  did  the  distance  in  half  the  time.  His  strong,  hardened 
body  served  him  well  and  his  desire  spurred  him  on. 

When  he  came  in  sight  of  the  crossroads  a  vague  sense 
of  change  struck  him.  The  roads  were  better.  There  was 
an  odd  little  building  near  the  yellow  house.  It  was  the 
new  school,  but  of  that  Northrup  had  not  heard.  From  the 
distance  the  chapel  bell  sounded.  It  did  not  have  that  lost, 
weird  note  that  used  to  mark  it — there  was  definiteness 
about  it  that  suggested  a  human  hand  sending  forth  a 
friendly  greeting. 

"Queer!"  muttered  Northrup,  and  then  he  did  a  bold 
thing.  He  went  to  the  door  of  the  yellow  house  and  knocked. 
He  had  not  intended  to  do  that. 

How  quiet  it  was  within!  But  again  the  welcoming  door 
swayed  open,  and  for  a  moment  Northrup  thought  the  room 
was  empty,  for  his  eyes  were  filled  with  the  late  afternoon 
glow. 

It  was  autumn  and  the  days  were  growing  short. 

Then  someone  spoke.  Someone  who  was  eager  to  greet 
and  hold  any  chance  visitor.  "Come  in,  Mary-Clare  will  be 
back  soon.  She  never  stays  long." 

At  that  voice  Northrup  slammed  the  door  behind  him  and 
strode  across  the  space  separating  him  from  Larry  Rivers! 

Larry  sat  huddled  in  the  chintz  rocker,  his  crutch  on  the 
floor,  his  thin,  idle  hands  clasped  in  his  lap.  He  wore  his 
uniform,  poor  fellow!  It  gave  him  a  sense  of  dignity.  His 
eyes,  accustomed  to  the  dimmer  light,  took  in  the  situation 
first;  he  smiled  nervously  and  waited. 

Northrup  in  a  moment  grasped  the  essentials. 


276  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"So  you've  been  over  there,  too?"  was  what  he  said. 
The  angry  gleam  in  his  eyes  softened.  At  least  he  and  Rivers 
could  speak  the  common  language  of  comrades-in-arms. 

"Yes,  I've  been  there,"  Larry  answered.  "When  I  came 
back,  I  had  nowhere  else  to  go.  Northrup,  you  wonder 
why  I  am  here.  Good  God !  How  I've  wanted  to  tell  you." 

"Well,  I'm  here,  too,  Rivers.  Life  has  been  stronger  than 
either  of  us.  We've  both  drifted  back." 

Larry  turned  away  his  head.  It  was  then  that  Northrup 
caught  the  full  significance  of  what  life  had  done  to  Rivers! 

"Northrup,  let  me  talk  to  you.  Let  me  plunge  in — 
before  any  one  comes.  They  won't  let  me  talk.  It's  like 
being  in  prison.  It's  hell.  I've  thought  of  you,  you're  the 
only  one  who  can  really  help.  And  I  dared  not  even  ask 
for  you ! " 

Larry  was  now  nervously  twisting  his  fingers,  and  his 
face  grew  ashen. 

"I'm  listening,  Rivers.     Go  on." 

Northrup  had  a  feeling  as  if  he  were  back  among  those 
scenes  where  time  was  always  short,  when  things  that  must: 
be  said  hurriedly  gripped  a  listener.  The  conventions  were 
swept  aside. 

"They — they  couldn't  understand,  anyway,"  Larry  broke 
in.  "They've  got  a  fixed  idea  of  me;  they  wouldn't  know 
what  it  was  that  changed  me,  but  you  will. 

"Everyone's  kind.  I  haven't  anything  to  complain  of, 
but  good  God !  Northrup,  I'm  dying,  and  what's  to  be  done — 
must  be  done  quickly.  You — see  how  it  is?" 

"Yes,  Rivers.  I  see."  There  could  be  no  mercy  in  de- 
ceiving this  desperate  man. 

"I  knew  you  would.  Day  after  day,  lately,  I've  been 
saying  that  over  in  my  mind.  I  remembered  the  night  in  the 
shack  on  the  Point.  I  knew  you  would  understand!" 

"Perhaps  your  longing  brought  me,  Rivers.  Things  like 
that  happen,  you  know." 

Northrup,  moved  by  pity,  laid  his  hand  on  the  shrunken 
ones  near  him.  All  feeling  of  antagonism  was  gone. 

"It   began   the   night   I   was   shot,"   Larry's   voice    fell, 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  277 

"and  Mary-Clare  will  not  let  me  talk  of  those  times.  She 
thinks  the  memory  will  keep  me  from  getting  well!  Good 
Lord !  Getting  well !  Me ! 

"There  were  two  of  us  that  night,  Northrup,  two  of  us 
crawling  away  from  the  hell  in  the  dark.  You  know!" 

"Yes,  Rivers,  I  know." 

"I'd  never  met  him — the  other  chap — before,  but  we  got 
talking  to  each  other,  when  we  could,  so  as  to — to  keep 
ourselves  alive.  I  told  him  about  Mary-Clare  and  Noreen. 
I  couldn't  think  of  anything  else.  There  didn't  seem  to 
be  anything  else.  The  other  fellow  hadn't  any  one,  he 
said. 

"When  help  came,  there  was  only  room  for  one.  One  had 
to  wait. 

"That  other  chap,"  Larry  moistened  his  lips  in  the  old 
nervous  fashion  that  Northrup  recalled,  "that  other  chap 
kept  telling  them  about  my  wife  and  child — he  said  he  could 
wait;  but  they  must  take  me! 

"God!  Northrup,  I  think  I  urged  them  to  take  him. 
I  hope  I  did,  but  I  cannot  remember — I  might  not  have, 
you  know.  I  can  remember  what  he  said,  but  I  can't  recall 
what  I  said." 

"I  think,  Rivers,  you  played  fair!" 

"Why?  Northrup,  what  makes  you  think  that?"  The 
haggard  face  seemed  to  look  less  ghastly. 

"I've  seen  others  do  it  at  such  a  time." 

"Others  like  me?" 

"Yes,  Rivers,  many  times." 

"Well,  there  were  weeks  when  nothing  mattered,"  Larry 
went  on,  "and  then  I  began  to  come  around,  but  something 
in  me  was  different.  I  wanted,  God  hearing  me,  Northrup, 
I  wanted  to  make  what  that  other  chap  had  done  for  me — 
worth  while. 

"When  I  got  to  counting  up  what  I'd  gone  through  and 
holding  to  the  new  way  I  felt,  I  began  to  get  well — and — then 
I  came  ho«ne.  Came  to  my  father's  house,  Northrup — that's 
what  Mary-Clare  said  when  she  saw  me. 

"That's  what  it  is — my  father's  house.     You  catch  on?" 


278  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

"Yes,  Rivers,  I  catch  on."  Then  after  a  pause:  "Let 
me  light  the  lamp."  But  Rivers  caught  hold  of  him. 

"No,  don't  waste  time — they  may  come  back  at  any 
moment — there'll  never  be  another  chance." 

"All  right,  go  on,  Rivers." 

The  soft  autumn  day  was  drawing  to  its  close,  but  the  west 
was  still  golden.  The  light  fell  on  the  two  men  near  the 
window;  one  shivered. 

"There  isn't  much  more  to  say.  I  wanted  you  to  know 
that  I'm  not  going  to  be  in  the  way  very  long. 

"You  and  I  talked  man  to  man  once  back  there  in  the 
shack.  Northrup,  we  must  do  it  now.  We  needn't  be  damned 
fools.  I've  got  a  line  on  Mary-Clare  and  yes,  thank  God!  on 
you.  I  can  trust  you  both.  She  mustn't  know.  When  it's 
all  over,  I  want  her  to  have  the  feeling  that  she's  placed 
square.  She  has,  but  if  she  thought  I  felt  as  I  do  to-day, 
it  would  hurt  her.  You  understand?  She's  like  that. 
Why,  she's  fixed  it  up  in  her  mind  that  I'm  going  to  pul^ 
through,  and  she's  braced  to  do  her  part  to  the  end;  but" — 
here  Larry  paused,  his  dull  eyes  filled  with  hot  tears;  his 
strength  was  almost  gone — "but  I  wanted  you  to  help  her— 
if  it  means  what  it  once  did  to  you." 

"It  means  that  and  more,  Rivers." 

Northrup  heard  his  own  words  with  a  kind  of  shock. 
Again  he  and  Rivers  were  stripped  bare  as  once  before  they 
had  been. 

"It — it  won't  be  long,  Northrup — there's  damned  little 
I  can  do  to — to  make  good,  but — I  can  do  this." 

The  choking  voice  fell  into  silence.  Presently  Northrup 
stood  up.  Years  seemed  to  have  passed  since  he  had  come 
into  the  room.  It  was  a  trick  of  life,  in  the  Forest,  when  big 
things  happened — they  swept  all  before  them. 

"Rivers,  you  are  a  brave  man,"  he  slowly  said.  "Will 
you  shake  hands?" 

The  thin  cold  fingers  instantly  responded. 

"God  helping  me,  I  will  not  betray  your  trust.  Once  I 
would  not  have  been  so  sure  of  myself,  but  you  and  I  have 
been  taught  some  strange  truths." 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  279 

Then  something  of  the  old  Larry  flashed  to  the  surface: 
the  old,  weak  relaxing,  the  unmoral  craving  for  another's 
solution  of  his  problems. 

"Oh,  it  always  has  to  be  someone  to  help  me  out,"  he  said. 

"You  know  about  Maclin?" 

"Yes,  Rivers." 

"Well,  I  did  the  turn  for  that  damned  scoundrel.  I  got 
the  Forest  out  of  his  clutches." 

"Yes,  you  did  when  you  got  your  eyes  opened,  Rivers." 

"They're  open  now,  Northrup,  but  there  always  has  to 
be — someone  to  help  me  out." 

"Rivers,  where  is  your  wife?"  So  suddenly  did  Northrup 
ask  this  that  Larry  started  and  gave  a  quick  laugh. 

"She  went  to  that  cabin  of  hers — you  know?" 

"Yes,  I  know." 

Both  men  were  reliving  old  scenes. 

Then  Larry  spoke,  but  the  laugh  no  longer  rang  in  his  tone: 

"She'll  be  coming,  by  now,  down  the  trail,"  he  whispered. 
"Go  and  meet  her,  tell  her  you've  been  here,  that  I  told  you 
where  she  was — nothing  more!  Nothing  more.  Ever!" 

"That's  right,  never!"  Northrup  murmured.  Then  he 
added: 

"I'll  come  back  with  her,  Rivers,  soon.  I'm  going  to  stay 
at  the  inn  for  a  time." 

Their  hands  clung  together  for  a  moment  longer  while 
one  man  relinquished,  the  other  accepted.  Then  Northrup 
turned  to  the  door. 

There  was  a  dull  purplish  glow  falling  on  the  Forest.  The 
subtle,  haunting  smell  of  wood  smoke  rose  pungently.  It 
brought  back,  almost  hurtingly,  the  past.  Northrup  walked 
rapidly  along  the  trail.  Hurrying,  hurrying  to  meet — he 
knew  not  what! 

Presently  he  saw  Mary-Clare,  from  a  distance,  in  the 
ghostly  woods.  Her  head  was  bowed,  her  hands  clasped 
lightly  before  her.  There  was  no  haste,  no  anticipation  in  her 
appearance;  she  simply  came  along! 

The  sight  of  youth  beaten  is  a  terrible  sight,  and  Mary- 
Clare,  off  her  guard,  alone  and  suffering,  believed  herself 


280  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

beaten.  She  was  close  to  Northrup  before  she  saw  him. 
For  a  moment  he  feared  the  shock  was  going  to  be  too  great 
for  her  endurance.  She  turned  white — then  the  quick  red 
rose  threateningly,  the  eyes  dimmed. 

Northrup  did  not  speak — he  could  not.  With  gratitude  he 
presently  saw  the  dear  head  lift  bravely,  the  trembling  smile 
curl  her  cold  lips. 

"You — have  come!" 

"Yes,  Mary-Clare." 

"How — did  you  know — where  I  was?" 

"  I  stopped  at  the  yellow  house.  I  saw  your — I  saw  Larry — 
he  told  me  where  to  find  you." 

"He  told  you  that?" 

The  bravery  flickered — but  pride  rallied. 

"He  is  very  changed."  The  words  were  chosen  carefully. 
"He  is  very  patient  and — and  Noreen  loves  him.  She  never 
could  have,  if  he  had  not  come  back!  She — well,  you  remem- 
ber how  she  used  to  take  care  of  me?" 

"Yes,  Mary-Clare." 

"She  takes  care  of  her  father  in  that  way,  now  that  she 
understands  his  need." 

"She  would.     That  would  be  Noreen's  way." 

"Yes,  her  way.  And  I  am  glad  he  came  back  to  us.  It 
might  all  have  been  so  different." 

There  was  a  suggestion  of  passionate  defence  in  the  low, 
hurried  words,  a  quick  insistence  that  Northrup  accept  her 
position  as  she  herself  was  doing. 

"Yes,  Mary-Clare.  Your  old  philosophy  has  proved  it- 
self." 

"I  am  glad  you  believe  that." 

"I  have  come  to  the  Forest  to  tell  you  so.  The  things 
that  do  not  count  drop  away.  We  do  not  have  to  push  them 
from  our  lives." 

"Oh!     I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that." 

Mary-Clare  caught  her  breath. 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  keep  them  apart  now — a 
word,  a  quick  sentence  were  all  that  were  necessary  to  bridge 
the  past  and  the  present.  Neither  dared  consider  the  future. 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  281 

The  small,  common  things  crept  into  the  conversation  for 
a  time,  then  Mary-Clare  asked  hesitatingly: 

"You — you  are  happy?    And  your  book?" 

"The  book  is  awaiting  its  time,  Mary-Clare.  I  must  live 
up  to  it.  I  know  that  now.  And  the  girl  you  once  saw  here, 
well!  that  is  all  past.  It  was  one  of  those  things  that  fell 
away!" 

There  was  nothing  to  say  to  this,  but  Northrup  heard  a 
sharp  indrawing  of  the  breath,  and  felt  the  girl  beside  him 
stumble  on  the  darkening  trail. 

"You  know  I  went  across  the  water  to  do  my  part?"  he 
asked  quickly. 

"You  would,  of  course.  That  call  found  such  men  as  you. 
Larry  went,  too!"  This  came  proudly. 

"Yes,  and  he  paid  more  than  I  did,  Mary-Clare." 

"He  had  more  to  pay — there  was  Maclin.  Do  you  know 
about  Maclin?" 

"Yes.  It  was  damnable.  We  all  scented  the  evil,  but 
we're  not  the  sort  of  people  to  believe  such  deviltry  until  it's 
forced  upon  us." 

"It  frightened  us  all  terribly,"  Mary-Clare's  voice  would 
always  hold  fear  when  she  spoke  of  Maclin.  "I  do  not  know 
what  would  have  happened  to  the  Forest  if — a  Mrs.  Dana 
had  not  come  just  when  things  were  at  the  worst." 

There  are  occurrences  in  life  that  seem  always  to  have  been 
half  known.  Their  acceptance  causes  no  violent  shock.  As 
Mary-Clare  spoke  that  name,  Northrup  for  a  moment  paused, 
repeated  it  a  bit  dazedly,  and,  as  if  a  curtain  had  been  with- 
drawn, he  saw  the  broad,  illuminating  truth!  "You  have 
heard  of  Mrs.  Dana?"  Mary-Clare  asked.  That  Northrup 
knew  so  much  did  not  surprise  her. 

"Yes,  of  course!  And  it  would  be  like  her  to  drop  in  at 
the  psychological  moment." 

"She  set  us  to  work!"  Mary-Clare  went  on.  "She  is  the 
most  wonderful  woman  I  ever  knew." 

"She  must  be!" 

Slower  and  slower  the  two  walked  down  the  trail.  They 
were  clutching  the  few  golden  moments. 


282  AT  THE  CROSSROADS 

It  was  quite  dark  when  they  came  to  the  yellow  house. 
The  door  was  wide  open,  the  heart  of  the  little  home  lay  bare 
to  the  passer-by. 

Jan-an  was  on  her  knees  by  the  hearth,  puffing  to  life  the 
kindlings  she  had  lighted.  Larry's  chair  was  drawn  close 
and  upon  its  arm  Noreen  was  perched. 

"They  always  leave  it  so  for  me,"  Mary-Clare  whispered. 
"You  see  how  everything  is?" 

"Yes,  I  see,  Mary-Clare." 

Northrup  reached  forth  and  drew  the  small  clasped  hands 
into  his  own! — then  he  bent  and  kissed  them. 

"I  see,  I  see." 

"And  you  will  come  in?     Larry  loves  company." 

"Not  to-night,  Mary-Clare,  but  to-morrow.  I  am  going 
to  stay  at  the  inn  for  a  few  days." 

"Oh!  I  am  glad!"     Almost  the  brave  voice  broke. 

"There  is  something  else  I  see,  my  dear,"  Northrup 
ignored  the  poor  disguise  for  a  moment.  "I  see  the  meaning 
of  you  as  I  never  saw  it  before.  You  have  never  broken 
faith!  That  is  above  all  else — it  is  all  else." 

"I  have  tried."  Upon  the  clasped  hands  tears  fell,  but 
Northrup  caught  the  note  of  joy  in  her  grieving  voice. 

"You  have  carried  on  what  your  doctor  entrusted  to  you." 

"Oh!  thank  you,  bless  you  for  saying  that." 

"Good-night."  Northrup  released  the  cold  hands — they 
clung  for  a  moment  in  a  weak,  human  way.  "There  is  to- 
morrow, you  know,"  he  whispered. 

Alone,  a  little  later,  on  the  road,  Northrup  experienced  that 
strange  feeling  of  having  left  something  back  there  in  the 
yellow  house. 

He  heard  the  water  lapping  the  edge  of  the  road  where 
the  sumach  grew;  the  bell,  with  its  new  tone,  sounded  clearly 
the  vesper  hour;  and  on  ahead  the  lights  of  the  inn  twinkled. 

And  then,  as  if  hurrying  to  complete  the  old  memory, 
Mary-Clare  seemed  to  be  following,  following  in  the  darkness. 

Northrup's  lips  closed  grimly.  He  squared  his  shoulders 
to  his  task. 

He  must  go  on,  keeping  his  mind  fixed  upon  the  brighter 


AT  THE  CROSSROADS  283 

hope  that  Mary-Clare  could  not,  now,  see;  must  not  now 
see.  For  her,  there  must  be  the  dark  stretch;  for  him  the 
glory  of  keeping  the  brightness  undimmed — it  must  be  a 
safe  place  for  her  to  rest  in,  by  and  by.  "She  has  kept  the 
faith  with  life,"  Northrup  thought.  "She  will  keep  it  with 
death — but  love  must  keep  faith  with  her." 


THE    END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000125225     3 


